


A Matter of Timing

by WeirdnessCat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mentioned Kate Argent, NUFF SAID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-06 17:37:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10340745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdnessCat/pseuds/WeirdnessCat
Summary: In which bad timing for a dog and poor timing on the Sheriff’s cruiser leads to fortuitous, if alarming, timing for the Sheriff, calamitous timing for Derek, and disconcerting timing for Stiles. Even the pizza gets in on the dramatic timing. Set in some nebulous era after Season 2.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This is my first post to AO3 and I hope I've got this right. If not, please let me know. Mistakes are all mine but hopefully they're not too egregious.

“You know, I’m happy to walk home from here, sir. The Sheriff shouldn’t be without wheels.”

“Nice try, Deputy. But while my cruiser’s in the shop, I’ve got a legitimate excuse not to be the first one Dispatch calls at 5:00 a.m. when another heavy-footed idiot doesn’t make that bend on Henty.”

John inwardly shuddered at the memory of supervising the removal of the bloodied, lifeless, commuter from the car embedded in a tree on that stretch of highway only that morning. Not even any alcohol involved, just a sleepy driver in a hurry, a stray dog, drizzle-shiny blacktop and abysmal timing. Some days the world was an incomprehensible and gloomy place.

He opened the car door and eased himself up and out of the vehicle.

“Just pick me up sharp in the morning, Hannah.”

“Sure thing, sir.”

Shutting the door with a firm but muted clunk, John felt the chill of the night air bite at his neck. The passenger window was still open a smidgeon and he leant into the gap.

“Seriously, Hannah, if anything major comes in overnight, tell Dispatch to call me, then come swing by here and collect me on your way in.”

“Yes, sir, of course. Have a good night, sir.”

John stepped away from the patrol car. “You too. Now, go make a fuss of that kid of yours. They grow up all too soon, so you need to make the most of your time with them while they’re young.”

“Will do, sir. Goodnight.” 

“G’night, Hannah. See you tomorrow.”

Smiling, the deputy nodded, giving a wave as she pulled away from the kerb and drove off.

“Bye,” John said to himself as he trudged around the corner, turning into the wind and up onto his street. It wasn’t yet winter but the cold pushed through his jacket like it was a dress shirt. He was grateful for the lack of rain now, the clouds having emptied themselves earlier in the day, and he promised himself a slow soak in a hot bath before bed. It had been too long since he’d indulged in that simple pleasure.

It seemed odd to be walking up his street; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d travelled this way using shoe leather and not tyre rubber. From this perspective, the road seemed alien to him; neighbours’ driveways looked unfamiliar, and every tree and shrub seemed to loom larger than they had only that morning when he had driven down the road on his way to work in his misfiring Sheriff’s Department SUV.

Although it wasn’t late in the evening, (he’d been lucky to get away so early on a Friday) the moon was out and was in competition with the street lamps to see which could cast the deepest shadows. Dark, looming shapes took on a deeper hue between lampposts, while their blurred outlines shifted and sharpened as John passed.

It was nights like these, he mused, when one could believe in ghosts and ghouls and things that go bump in the night. 

Making his way wearily towards his home, he kept to the grass parkway that edged the sidewalk, his feet appreciating the softer surface. It had been a long day, hardly any of it spent at his desk. If he couldn’t find the energy for a bath, he’d certain soak his feet while he got caught up on the news from the rest of the world. Or maybe the ballgame. 

As he approached the Shelby’s house, immediately before his own, he slowed. His neighbours’ dog was often in their yard at this time of night and the last thing he wanted was to set off Twinkle (never get the grandkids to name the new pet) on one of his bouts of bellicose barking. For a small dog that mutt had a yap that could wake the dead.

In an instant, John was back on Henty, watching the broken carcass of the dead dog from this morning’s traffic accident being hauled away, leaving a bloody smear on the tarmac that had seemed impervious to the fire department’s hose. That was an image he didn’t need in his head. Christ, what a day. He needed a drink.

All but tip-toeing up to the Shelby’s, John peered into their darkened yard for any hint of movement. He was heartened that his stealthy approach had not roused the pint-sized banshee, but it wouldn’t do to become complacent; the dog had ears like a bat. 

John crept by, but stilled for a moment at the entrance to his own yard as he considered which path across the gravel-strewn ground would make the least noise. 

He didn’t habitually walk across his own front yard; he tended to drive up and park as close to the house as was feasible. Twinkle never took a blind bit of notice of a ton and a half of noxious fume-belching metal rumbling up (and of late, misfiring and spluttering noisily). But any pedestrian arrival at the Shelby’s, or the houses either side, got the demented Scottish Terrier acting like a rabid football coach shouting obscenities from the dugout. (His son’s high school coach popped into John’s head and he suppressed another shudder.) Even Doris, the USPS mail carrier, wasn’t immune to the raucous, irrational edge of Twinkle’s judgement, and she was just the sweetest person to ever wear grey culottes. 

There was an upstairs light showing down the side of John’s house, from his son’s room, and there were lights on in possibly every room downstairs (why the heck couldn’t Stiles extinguish the lights when he exited a room?) but that wasn’t quite enough illumination for John to clearly discern the terrain ahead of him. Squinting to make out more detail from the murkiness, John had to admit that he couldn’t tell the patches of hard-packed stony soil from the loose grit that made up a good three-quarters of his own yard. One crunch from an ill-placed boot and the demon masquerading as next-door’s Scottie-dog would be heard all the way to Beacon Creek.

Slipping into his yard, John side-stepped to the narrow band of dark dirt at the base of the perimeter trees, careful to avoid brushing against their branches. He took a moment to stand sentinel in the shadows, considering his best route. The dual perils of the gravel approach and a creaky wooden porch meant that he’d have to forgo the front door in favour of sneaking in the back way, where the grass was more abundant and tenacious, and the decking less rickety. 

Where John was currently standing, close to the fenced and conifer-hedged boundary, the bare earth had been softened by the earlier rain, offering, he hoped, a quieter path to the rear porch.

John tested his theory by taking three measured paces, before pausing again with bated breath. When the Shelby’s yard remained as silent as a cemetery, John breathed in deeply and continued his halting circumnavigation.

Though he felt vaguely preposterous creeping around his own property in the dark, he was justified in his stealth since he’d more than reached his dog-involved incident quota for the day, thank you very much. Besides, he hadn’t come this far to risk alerting that crazy canine to his presence on the home straight. Frankly, any skulking was preferable to waking Twinkle; the neighbourhood would thank him for his service if only they knew.

Claudia’s Jeep was parked haphazardly (really, Stiles?) at the side of the house, but at least that meant it was far enough out to allow him to manoeuvre between it and the conifers, keeping to the footfall-deadening soil. 

Once in the gap between the vehicle and the trees, he stopped again and listened. Silence. Twinkle was likely indoors. Yet John wasn’t about to tempt fate (he and fate weren’t on the best of terms) so he resolved to continue his surreptitious approach. 

The Jeep cast a deeper shadow here so he took a moment to try to discern where best to step next. He was about to test his preferred path with a careful foot, when he heard a soft scraping noise ahead of him. Ahead and above him. 

He was examining every inch of the back and side of the house visible from his sheltered vantage point before he’d even registered what he’d heard; his son’s bedroom window sliding open. Stiles was leaning out –-wait. 

The hulking silhouette sliding over the sill of his son’s window was most certainly not his son. What the hell?

He flicked the safety catch from his holster. The hot worry flooding his system was doused by an icy professionalism as his fingers closed around the cold of the gunmetal. 

The dark shape that had exited his son’s bedroom stood on the sloping half-roof below the sill, twisting around to close the window almost noiselessly. Turning back, the figure stilled for an instant, scanning the yard like a thief checking the coast was clear, before vaulting down onto a small grassy patch below.

The guy was obviously fit, if his outline and his leap from the second storey were anything to go by. The jump had been truly impressive, with a faultless landing; the guy must be an Olympic gymnast. Or a renowned cat-burglar.

John pulled his gun free, levelled it at the acrobat, and stepped from the cover of the Jeep into the biting wind.

“Police. Stop right there.”

The full body flinch that shot through the guy at that moment would have been comical but for the circumstances. 

“Raise your arms above your head and step forward two paces.”

“Sheriff?” 

The questioning inflection, as if it was completely unheard of for the Sheriff to be in his own backyard, irritated John. But he’d recognised the voice even before the guy had stepped into a patch of light courtesy of the kitchen fluorescent, while raising his palms to chest height – in a placating gesture rather than in surrender. 

“Hale.”

“Sheriff.” 

The window above them rasped open again.

“Dere—Dad?”

“Are you okay, son?” John called out as he took a step closer to Derek Hale, suspected murderer (exonerated, and more ‘sinned against’ than sinning, but still a ‘person of interest’ as far as John was concerned, especially now).

“Well, duh. Of course I’m okay. Dad, why are you pointing your gun at Derek?”

“You’re smart, son. You figure it out.”

“Oh my god, Dad. Derek hasn’t done anything.” 

“He’s just climbed out of—no. I’m not having this conversation out here. I don’t intend giving our neighbours a free show, or wake that damn Scottie-dog, by discussing this in my backyard.”

“Oh, it’s okay. Twinkle won’t be a problem anymore, Dad, because Derek’s taken care of—”

“What did you do to the dog?” 

John’s tone didn’t hide the growing horror fermenting in his gut as he re-appraised the man in front of him. Now the guy was fully turned towards him, John couldn’t make out his features in the backlit gloom, and Hale was saying nothing to allay his fears about the dog. 

“Da-ad. Jeez, Dad. Derek’s just, uh, good with dogs. Like, he knows how to calm them, kinda. Twinkle never gives us any trouble, like ever. He’s always as good as gold when Derek’s here—oh.”

Lord, give him strength. Just how frequently was Hale visiting his son? In his bedroom.

“Right. You,” John batted his free hand in the direction of his son without taking his eyes off of the former fugitive from justice, “go and open the kitchen door, then back away. You. Move,” John said to Hale, gesturing with his firearm towards the back of his house.

Hale gave a curt bob of his head and began to walk, almost saunter, towards the back door with an unconcerned air that John found insulting. Biting back the need to point out that he was the actual Sheriff, with an actual gun, John followed, finger on his trigger, heart in his mouth. Just what the hell had he stumbled on?

It was at moments like this that John felt the loss of Claudia like a knife to his insides.

As they reached the back porch, the door smacked open and a breathless Stiles toppled out, arms flying up, face flushed. Hale came to a halt, and John stepped to one side so that he could put himself between his son and the putative criminal, should the need arise. Keeping his firearm trained on Hale, he checked his son over with a sceptical eye. It didn’t look as though Stiles had put his clothes on in a hurry, and John tried to take comfort in that. 

“Dad, there’s no need for this,” Stiles said, waving both hands at the gun, “Derek’s harmless.”

Hale drew himself up. “No, I’m not.”

“Du-ude. Not helping. Okay: Mostly harmless. Seriously, dad, this is all a big mistake.”

“Oh, of that I’m sure,” John said, flicking the back of his hand at his son to get him to back up.

“No, I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. Jeez.” Stiles flung his arms in the air, pirouetted 180 degrees, and stomped back into the kitchen.

Hale waited until John waved him forward, then he followed Stiles into the house, John on his heels again. 

Closing the door with his butt, John motioned his gun at Hale to take a seat at the kitchen table. Hale complied with no comment. Even his body language was mute, which, while he held himself taut like a coiled spring, was only giving off signals of wary acquiescence.

John then glared at his son and looked pointedly at the seat opposite Hale. Stiles threw himself into the chair indicated with a disapproving flounce. John hardly expected anything different.

“There’ll be less attitude from you, young man, or I’ll take every electronic gadget of yours down to that exchange mart on Main and Third and pawn it. Including your phone. Think I won’t? Try me.”

“Fine.” Stiles pouted but then looked across at Hale and his face crumpled into something that looked genuinely apologetic. 

John placed his gun on the table in front of him but, no matter how desperately he wanted to get off of his feet, he did not sit down himself. Crap, this was so not how he’d imagined his evening going.

“Okay. Hale, you go first. Why were you in my son’s bedroom? Big picture, no need for details – at this stage – and why did you leave via the window?”

“But Dad—”

“I asked Hale. You will keep your trap shut until I ask you a question directly. Understood?”

Stiles nodded, but he ratchetted up his pout, as he gave the varnished pine of their table top the stink eye.

“Hale?”

“I was visiting. I find the window more convenient than stairs. I’m sorry if I’m unwelcome here. I won’t visit again.”

Hale’s delivery was like he was reading a prepared statement someone else had written on behalf of a third, disinterested, party.

“Stiles. Why was Hale here? In your room?”

“Homework? Uh, yeah, he was helping with my homework.”

A grown man, who dressed like an enforcer for the Mob, drove an expensive muscle car, scowled like an internet cat, and had every reason to hate his fellow man, was helping his son with his studies? No chance. 

“Is that true, Hale?” 

“I have helped with your son’s studies,” Hale said. Again, his words lacked intonation, and he delivered them without the barest hint of a bobbed head. 

Hale was being deceptive; of that John had no doubt. A truthful answer in the affirmative would have featured the word ‘yes’ and usually a nod, and a current answer would be in the present tense. There was no protest, no outrage, no attempt to explain away the circumstances or to exonerate himself. 

John sighed audibly as he realised just how much he’d wanted to hear ‘yes, sir’ and some garbled account of how Hale’s BA in History (John remembered) was the key to Stiles getting an A+ for his latest assignment for Miss Barnfather. No wait, Barnfather left last semester. Was it Mr Wells now? Or Wallis? Anyhow, whichever way you cut it, Hale was being disingenuous. 

“How far did you get?” John asked his son, “With your assignment?”

“Assignment? Oh, uh no, it was just general, uh, helping … helping me to research. Sort of background stuff for my homework. Yeah. Background.”

“Hale?”

The man in question lost some of his stiffness, but then he turned to fix John with a stare that would have made most of his deputies baulk.

“May I speak with you, sir? In private?”

There was inflection now, and the last word had been stressed with something that might have been concern. For all he looked like a tough, nonchalant hoodlum, Hale was genuinely disquieted and soliciting an opportunity to talk. Something that felt like a heavy meal of bad meat flopped over in John’s stomach.

“Derek?” Stiles asked, then winced as the thud of sneaker hitting table-leg broadcast itself to the kitchen; he’d obviously attempted to kick Hale under the table and had missed. Served him right.

“Stiles, go to your room and stay there until I call for you.”

“No, Dad, Derek was just leaving. He – he has someplace to go. He’ll be late for… whatever. We were just talking about stuff. Honest. We weren’t… Oh my god, Dad. You can’t believe—”

“Well, I can’t believe my own son these days, it seems. Maybe Mr Hale will be more forthcoming now that he knows I will not be dropping this line of enquiry until I get a satisfactory answer. Now, go to your room and stay there.”

Stiles crossed his arms and slumped down into his seat, jaw jutting out in teenage defiance. John really didn’t need this tonight.

“It’s okay, Stiles”, Hale said quietly, “you should go. It’ll be fine. Go.” 

John scoffed to himself. As if Stiles would take any notice; he was stubborn as hell, and would do the opposite of what he was told just to see how far he could push it. Hale had got a lot to learn about his son. (Oh, and wasn’t that a phrase he never needed to have rattling around in his brain?)

For a micro-second Stiles looked desolate, like he used to as a kid when it was time for Scott to go home. Then he creased his face into an contrite half-smile, mouthed ‘sorry’ at Hale, and headed to the stairs without any acknowledgement of his own father. Though clearly unhappy that he’d been dismissed, Stiles nevertheless followed direction from Derek Hale like an obedient puppy. His son had been replaced by a pod-person, or John was losing his grip on reality. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hale drop his shoulders a fraction and settle back into his chair, as if removing Stiles from the situation had relieved a burden he’d been carrying. Hale’s behaviour at once intrigued and disturbed John. 

“And shut your door,” John called up the stairs after his son, as he holstered his sidearm, leaving the leather safety flap unfastened. “Hale. Join me in the lounge.”

He marched past the table, deliberately showing Hale his back; textbook lawman shorthand for ‘you don’t scare me; this is my domain and you will do as I say’. As he lowered himself into his easy chair, adjusting his holster so it didn’t dig into his thigh (and was blatantly visible), he heard Hale’s chair scape.

The ex-murder suspect crossed the room and took a seat on the end of the couch furthest from John. 

“Sir—”

“One moment.” John held up a hand, then reached his other to grab one of three remote controls from the side table next to him. Pointing the remote at a black rectangle slung under the TV stand, he pushed a couple of buttons. As Boston began opining that it was ‘More Than a Feeling’, John let his best ‘good cop if you give me no trouble’ smile creep onto his face.

“Apologies for the rock music, Hale. Stiles can’t hear us in his room but he isn’t above sneaking out onto the stairs, so I’ll do us both a favour by ensuring us some privacy. When you live with an overly-curious son, and you have a habit of taking confidential law enforcement phone calls at home, these are the measures you have to take. Anyway, Hale, what’s this about?”

“Derek, sir. The name’s Derek. And the music’s fine. I’m not eager for Stiles to overhear this either.”

That was the first hint of anything like discomfort John had seen in the guy since he’d stepped from the shadows with his gun drawn and watched Hale recoil like he’d been Tazered.

“Right. So, you wanna tell me just exactly what you – a 23-year-old adult – and my 17-year-old high-schooler son were up to before I arrived?”

“It’s not what you think—”

“You don’t know what I think, Derek.” He stressed the guy’s name and felt satisfaction at the way the eyes of the man across the room widened. Yep, Hale was uncomfortable; he could work with that. “What I asked was what you were doing.”

“I was helping him with research. That’s true. Not for a school assignment, but for a … a project he’s working on. You should know that nothing … inappropriate has, or would, happen.”

John nodded slowly. He turned the stereo up a notch, replaced the remote on the table, aligning it carefully with its companions, adjusted the pile of magazines and newspapers alongside, and then smoothed his hand up and down the worn-shiny arm of his chair a few times.

“So. A project. On?”

“Uh, the supernatural, sir.”

Well, that came out of left field. He’d expected some attempt at concocting a plausible schoolwork subject, but this… It sounded so ridiculous, and so like a topic that would intrigue Stiles, as to be the truth.

“Why?”

“Sir?”

Hale looked furtive, like he might launch himself out of the window at any moment, only this time without bothering to open it first. Dammit. Guess he could forget soaking in the bath tonight.

“Simple enough. Why are you here? Working on a project. About the supernatural. With my son. Why?”

“I, uh, I…”

John didn’t remember Hale being this tongue-tied when he’d been interviewed as a likely murderer. He’d been cagey for sure, but never this flustered. Maybe this really was as he’d originally feared.

“Okay, let me ask you something else. What are your intentions towards my son?”

If John had been in any other situation, Hale’s reaction would have had him laughing until he passed out from lack of oxygen. Hale’s jaw had dropped, his eyes were the size of saucers, and his eyebrows had buried themselves into his hairline. Gone was the ‘Show No Emotion unless it’s Barely-Contained Fury’ image that Hale normally cultivated. 

“Wow. I thought you said it wasn’t what I thought? Wanna explain. Before I’m involved in an accidental discharge of a firearm incident in my own home? I could do without the paperwork and the grilling from Internal Affairs.”

Slumping forward, Hale ran a hand through his hair. He seemed to be having a silent conversation with his boots before he looked up, an expression on his face reminiscent of a cat eating grass. 

“Sir, this can’t leave this room. Stiles must never know.” 

Aw, crap. What had Stiles got himself mixed up in now?

“Can’t promise that, Hale, unless I know what we’re talking about here. But I’m his father, as well as the Sheriff, so you’ll do me the courtesy of explaining yourself before I jump to anymore conclusions, or my gun. Get my drift?”

Hale nodded, closed his eyes for a second, and when he reopened them they were hard and his jaw was set. For all the guy’s bearing spoke of determination and confrontation, his words, when they came, were hesitant and the tone conciliatory. 

“I’m … I’m not sure I can … give you all the answers you need, sir, but only because I’m not clear on this myself. I can only tell you that … uh, I would never … we would never… We’re not… I mean, I… Stiles and I… We get along. Well, no, uh, we argue at lot, but…not in a bad way. What I’m trying to say is, well, I guess he … uh, befriended me. He’s, uh, he’s helped me to settle back into Beacon Hills. He’s … Well, he’s been a life-saver, you could say.

“Now, he helps me out with stuff and I… I return the favour. Like helping with this, uh, supernatural project.”

“What stuff does he help you with in exchange for your help with his projects? Exactly?”

“Nothing like that, sir. It’s just research. Nothing untoward. Ever.” 

Hale sounded affronted at the very suggestion of impropriety, but sad experience told John that abusers didn’t advertise or volunteer evidence of their sick shenanigans. Of course, abusers had often been abused themselves and Hale had—Jesus H Christ. Kate Argent’s mugshot appeared tacked on the whiteboard of John’s mind.

“Derek, tell me now: is this thing between you … physical? You need to be honest with me. Are you having a physical relationship with my son?”

“No! … No, sir, I am not. And wouldn’t.”

“If I find you’re lying… He’s 17—”

“You think, I, of all people, don’t know that, sir? You think, with my … background, that I’m not acutely aware of our ages? After everything that happened … back then?”

“It’s because I know your background that I’m asking. You’re not stupid, Derek. You know as well as I do about adults repeating cycles of childhood abuse.”

“Sir!” Hale’s high-pitched indignation was undermined by his round eyes and pale face that made him look like he was about to hurl. 

But for the stubble, Derek could be that lost-looking, ashen-faced kid, sitting on the hard plastic seats in his station, that night of the Hale fire. John guessed, in some way, Hale was always going to be that kid. Trauma can do that to you sometimes; he’d seen it before, over the years.

“I’m being realistic. He’s my son and I need to know what’s going on here.”

“Nothing, sir. I promise.” 

“Yet, that’s not the impression I’m getting from you. You say you argue, ‘but not in a bad way’. You claim to be friends, yet, outside of accusing you of murder a couple of times, I don’t think I’ve heard Stiles mention your name. And need I remind you that I caught you sneaking out of his bedroom? Something’s not adding up here. So, Derek, what exactly is this about? I’m giving you an opportunity here, son, to get out ahead of this.” 

How many times had he said that last sentence, those exact same words, to some perpetrator sitting in Interview 1 with an attorney from the Public Defender’s office? It was John who felt like throwing up now. 

“What’s going on here, Derek? Tell me now, or we take this down town.”

Hale sat up straighter, shoulders squared, chin high, his face now showing splotches of colour on the tips of his ears and beneath the shadow of his stubble. 

“Nothing is going on, sir. I swear to you…”

“But? I can hear a ‘but’, Derek. But … you want there to be? Is that what you want to tell me?”

If John had blinked, he would have missed Derek’s economical nod. Ah.

Oh God.

“I haven’t… I wouldn’t…” Hale looked down at his hands splayed on his thighs and when he made eye contact again he was all of his 23 years and then some. “I don’t really know how to explain this, but … I hold your son in very high regard, sir.”

John just knew his face had given away his surprise, as much for the phraseology as the sentiment. He had so many questions but, “You have feelings for him?” was all he could manage in the moment.

“I, uh, I think so, uh, yes. Yes, I do, sir. Rest assured, I don’t intend to act on them. Not now. Likely not ever. I just want him to be happy and to be safe. Believe me when I say that I will never do anything to hurt Stiles, and that I will do everything in my power to protect him.”

Hale didn’t look away. To John, it felt as though, for all his assurances and obvious embarrassment, Hale had just issued a challenge. That should have had the parent and the lawman in him bristling with offence. Instead, he felt a little sad; that a good-looking, articulate and, by all accounts, intelligent man would become fixated on his gangly, well-meaning, but hopelessly unruly and hyperactive, teenage son. 

John held the man’s gaze as he examined that thought. He was actually sorry for a guy who had … what? … just admitted to having feelings – romantic feelings, because let’s call this what it is – for his own under-age son. What sort of a father did that make him? Any negatives in this ought to be about how his son was too young and deserved better than a damaged older man who, in John’s humble opinion, hadn’t matured much beyond the point when that damnable fire had consumed his family. 

John knew the truth about the fire now, about Kate and how she had used Derek. He wasn’t clear on the detail or the reasons behind her actions, but he suspected that Derek had probably wanted to end their relationship. Kate had been angry at being dumped by her much younger lover and had set fire to Derek’s home, killing nearly his entire family. John didn’t think you got to live through that without some serious mental health repercussions, and that alone should have him wanting to protect Stiles from the man currently trying to stare him down. Hell, the fact he was even trying to stare him down was good enough reason to want nothing to do with the guy.

Yet he felt more protective of Derek in this, than of his own son. How was that right? He should have his license to practise as a father revoked.

“Sir, I know this is not what you wanted to hear,” Hale was saying, “and if you’d rather I didn’t see Stiles again, of course I’ll comply, but—”

“No.” John looked to the ceiling but found only yellowing paint, not the inspiration he’d been seeking. How he missed Claudia’s insightful guidance and calming presence. He tipped his head forward again, aware that he was screwing his eyes up in a useless attempt to bring into focus something it wasn’t possible to visualise.

“Look, Derek. I’m not going to forbid you from seeing Stiles. My experience is that that kind of thing usually has the opposite of the desired effect – especially where my son is concerned.” Hale’s shoulders lost their rigidity. “But,” John took in a deep breath, exhaling noisily, “I’m going to ask you to remember the laws of California, remember we live in a small town where gossip is better than currency, and in time – if there ever is a time – use condoms.”

That had been one of the most toe-curling things he’d ever had to say, but the sudden deepening of colour on Hale’s throat, cheeks and ears, and his look of, well, horror, was so worth any awkwardness on John’s part. He’d had embarrassing discussions before (with Stiles usually) but they were just uncomfortable all round. This time his own discomfort was totally eclipsed by Hale’s obvious mortification.

And, yes, he did feel sorry for the guy. Also a little perplexed that a grown man who looked like he’d modelled for some top shelf, bad-boy biker magazine would be this bashful at the mention of contraceptives. Just went to show; you should never judge a book, or magazine, by its cover.

“Okay, Derek. You know where I stand on this now. I expect you to treat my son with the respect he deserves – er, with the respect he deserves as my son, and to keep him safe. I’ll tell him the same—”

“No.” Derek had jolted to attention in his seat, eyes wide. “No, sir. Stiles doesn’t know. He can never know. I haven’t … I wouldn’t…”

“Whoa there, son. Maybe I’m getting old and confused here, but didn’t I just catch you sneaking out of my son’s bedroom?”

“Yes, sir. But, like I said; it’s not what it looked like.”

“I’m beginning to get that. So, Stiles doesn’t know? About how you feel?” At Hale’s slow shake of his head, John continued, “So why does Stiles think you come to visit him?”

“Uh, as I said; we work on projects together and he does research for me sometimes.”

“Projects? Like that supernatural thing you said?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s just something that … that has captured his imagination. If I can help… I do.”

“And the ‘research’ he does for you? In exchange. Would that be PG research, or does he have to clear his browser history? Don’t think I’m not wise to the tricks.”

“Strictly PG, sir. I just don’t have internet access currently, and I find the free Wi-Fi coffee shops too … crowded. I’m … not good with crowds.”

“So you have him researching things that you yourself feel uncomfortable about looking up in public?” John wasn’t born yesterday.

“No. No, sir.” Hale combed a hand through his hair again, leaving it sticking up like fur on a frightened cat. “Look, last month Stiles tracked down a TV for me. He looked into what I needed – I hadn’t a clue about pixels, connections and warranties; about any of it, to be honest. Anyway, he found me the TV I needed at a fair price. Cheaper than anywhere in town. He’s good at that sort of thing.” 

John couldn’t deny that. Their home cinema system – currently belting out a crystal clear (and somewhat paradoxical) Kansas track – was living proof of Stiles’ ability to ferret out a bargain. Yet Hale’s protestations hadn’t settled John’s stomach, and he let his face show his dyspepsia. 

“Sir, there’s nothing sinister … nothing inappropriate between us. We just … help each other out. Stiles is just being … a friend. I don’t want to jeopardise that. I wouldn’t.”

Right. Well, it wasn’t the weirdest relationship John had encountered (although he was a police officer so that probably wasn’t a useful yardstick) but it didn’t seem a very healthy one from Hale’s perspective. Plus, how would Hale react if… sorry, when Stiles started dating for real? He’d seen some pretty awful outcomes when jealousy and love got entangled. 

Wait.

Love? Really? Was that what this was? No, of course not. Wasn’t it more likely another take on that Stiles loves Lydia type of high school crush? Albeit with a guy who had been out of high school more than half a decade. Dear Lord. 

“I think you should be honest with my son, Derek. But I’m not going to ‘out’ you,” John just managed not to cringe at his own poor word choice, “I’m not going to break your confidence. But if you know my son at all, you’ll know he’s intelligent, imaginative and resourceful. He’ll find out eventually and he’s not one to forgive lightly, particularly if he thinks he’s been deceived. His moral compass may not always point due north, but he has little tolerance for people who deviate from the path he thinks is the right one, no matter how convoluted it may be. 

“My advice is to tell him, and tell him sooner rather than later. Note, I said ‘tell’ him. Not ‘show’ him. My earlier advice about the law still stands. I have a position to uphold in this community. You hear me?”

Hale swallowed and nodded once. 

“Okay. So how about we get my son down here and order in pizza? I’m bushed so I’m not even going to attempt a freezer-to-microwave combo tonight. They print the instructions far too damn small to be legible after a full day at work. So a pizza and a convivial evening getting to know my son’s … project assistant sounds like a plan. I might even find us a beer. So, what do you say? Pizza?”

“No, sir, that’s fine. I won’t intrude any longer.” 

Hale was on his feet, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets. 

A smile sprang to John’s lips and he knew it looked Machiavellian (it may have been mentioned by colleagues one time). 

“The question there referred to the choice of menu. I hope I didn’t give you the impression that the ‘getting to know you over dinner’ part was optional.”

Hale blanched under his scruff and John wondered at the speed with which the kid could do that. 

Kid? Okay, he was a full-grown man not a child, but ‘kid’ seemed to suit Hale better in the recesses of John’s mind. Perhaps that was because he could still see the shell-shocked kids, Derek and his older sister Laura, standing in front of him, looking all of ten years younger than their legitimate 16 and 18 respectively, as he had tried to gently question them on the night of the fire. 

Truth be told, John had never forgotten the raw horror of that night, or how the Hale kids’ quiet, wide-eyed dignity at the Sheriff’s Office had impressed, and upset, everyone who worked there. 

“Sit down, Derek. I haven’t finished with you yet.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From spy thriller through classic sci-fi to horror movie, and all before dinner.

Derek retook his seat opposite John, perching on the edge of the cushion like he thought it might devour him whole, though his sour expression suggested that it would be a brave couch to try.

“Before I get Stiles down here, tell me this: what do you want out of this, Derek?” John asked.

“No, I… Nothing.”

The guy shook his head, slipping his butt back into the cushions as if he had forgotten the sofa was his enemy, the tight lines of his face falling away. Well, alright then; John would press his advantage.

“Do you honestly hope one day to … what, Derek? Have an adult relationship with Stiles? To be his … boyfriend?” The word dragged across John’s tongue. “Because I’m not sure that’s something he’d … be able to reciprocate. You know about his … admiration for Lydia Martin, I’m sure.

“Or do you see yourself as a mentor of some sort? Have you given any thought as to how that would work? Because that won’t be easy for you. Or him. How do you see this panning out, Derek?”

While Axl Rose sung, ironically, of childhood memories and a warm safe place, Derek stared at a spot on his leg where his hand was gripping at the taut denim. When he looked up, Derek held John’s gaze with an intensity that might have had a less experienced interrogator squirming.

“Honestly, sir? I don’t know. I’m … out of my depth with this. Yes, I’m aware of Lydia. She’s not an issue, and … I don’t believe gender is either, if that’s what you were implying.”

John raised an eyebrow at that, memories crashing back of finding Stiles standing outside Jungle, the gay club in town, but he didn’t interrupt. He’d have time to figure out his son later. Right now, he was more interested in Hale.

“But I’m not thinking that far ahead,” Derek was saying with a shrug, “I’m not sure I’ll ever be the person Stiles deserves. For now, I think I want him to know he has a friend in me. I’m not sure I even know how to be a friend, but I’m trying. For Stiles.

“And I know this will end badly for me. I know that. How could it not? I’m resigned to it. Not much I can do about it anyway. But I won’t be a problem for either you or Stiles, sir. If either of you want me gone, I’ll go. I can’t promise to back off completely, but I won’t make trouble. I’ll keep a … watching brief … from a distance. That way if I’m ever needed…”

John nodded as he processed this. “You’ve thought a lot about this? About my son?”

“I’m not stalking… uh, I’m not … ingratiating myself into his good graces … not, uh, ‘grooming’, they call it,” Hale’s face distorted like he’d just bitten into a lemon, “Not that. Nothing of that sort, sir. This isn’t some elaborate game-plan to subvert your son’s affections, even if that were possible, and I’m pretty sure that would be a fool’s errand.”

Well, yes, John was inclined to agree. You had to get up early in the day to fool Stiles, if that was even possible. John usually blamed himself and his job (and perhaps Claudie’s untimely passing) for his kid’s general distrust of the world. Today he was going to take full credit for his son’s exceptional perceptiveness and infallible BS detector.

“This is … new to me, sir. Unexpected. I’m running mostly on instinct here. I’m just trying to do what’s best for Stiles. To be a friend. You know Scott hasn’t been around much recently?”

“Stiles hasn’t mentioned it, not as such,” John said, rubbing at his chin as he cast his mind back. “But I don’t see Scott hanging around here as much as I used to. I know he’s been dating Chris Argent’s daughter. And I know things have been rough for her, what with her mother’s suicide. I imagine Scott has been preoccupied.”

He’d meant to raise the issue with Stiles, honestly he had. But with the animal attacks; the massacre at the station and the staffing issues that had caused; the funerals and fundraising for their families; his own firing and re-hiring; an outbreak of strange graffiti in town, which had riled up the Mayor more than the deaths of his deputies (the sick SOB); and then Marcie, his most experienced civilian administrator, going off on maternity leave; well, he’d barely had enough energy to keep his service weapon oiled.

“Scott hasn’t always been there for Stiles recently, sir. I’m a poor substitute, but I hope Stiles might come to regard me as … a friend. Someone he confides in when Scott’s not available.”

“And does he? Confide in you?” What else didn’t John know about his son that Derek Hale was privy to?

“Some, I think.” Derek wiped his hands on his thighs. “More so, in time, I hope.”

“Can I trust you, Derek?”

The look Hale threw him at that was one of open assessment, as though he was judging if _he_ could trust _John_. He appeared to be choosing his next words with immense care, although John doubted Hale had the capacity for speaking without due consideration; the guy was usually as tight-lipped as an agent from Homeland Security.

“I don’t know, sir. I’m not being evasive or rude. I want to be honest with you, but there are things we don’t know about each other… But Stiles? Yes, Stiles can trust me – and he has. And I have trusted him, which is not something I find easy to do … or thought I ever would again.”

“I see.” John said, as he tried to digest Hale’s words. His hunger grumbled through his stomach and he grimaced. “I appreciate your candour, Derek, but I don’t know how I feel about this. We’ll leave it there for now, but we’ll talk again, you can count on that. And just so you know; if you visit here again, you’ll use the front door.

“Right now, I’m tired and hungry. I’m going to call Stiles and get him to order pizza for us all. You’ll stay and act like the friend you claim to be. Do I make myself clear?”

Hale nodded, a brief tip of his head that John was beginning to realise was typical of the man.

“Good,” John said, punctuating with a heavy breath. He slapped his hands onto the arms of his chair and pushed up, hoisting himself to his aching feet.

As he straightened, Derek shifted in his seat.

“Sir? Stiles … I don’t want … he doesn’t know—”

“I get it, son. I meant what I said: I won’t say a word. But you should. And soon, before he works this out for himself. Right now, all I’m interested in is a Meat Feast pizza and a Bud.”

He grabbed the remote up and zapped Blue Oyster Cult into the background. Tossing the device back to join the others, he was certain that Stiles’ bedroom door would be open before the remote hit the table.

He ambled into the hallway, intercepting his son before he’d cleared the stairs.

“We have a guest for dinner and you will be on your best behaviour. Do you hear me?”

“I’m always on my best behaviour,” Stiles said as he flopped his upper torso over the handrail, arms dangling. “So, what did Derek say, huh?”

“I’ll need to speak with your English teacher if you don’t understand the words ‘in private’.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“If you think I’m gonna let a little thing like an adjectival phrase deflect me, it doesn’t say much for your profiling skills, old man.”

“Don’t try to be clever. I know how … dogged you can be, but if you think…”

“Dogged, huh? Yeah, I’m like a dog with a bone, Daddio. Or, you know, a wolf with a squirrel.”

John thought he heard a slight upward inflection in his son’s voice, and his eyes had narrowed the way they did when he thought he was on to something. Worryingly, his limbs had stilled; that never bode well.

“Really, Stiles? Let it go. C’mon, before I decide you need a muzzle. No, I’ve had it with dog references; I’ve been traumatised enough for one day on that score. I need a beer and to forget about all things canine for the rest of the evening. Get down here, now.”

With a snort, Stiles was down the stairs and dragging John by his arm to the downstairs bathroom. Huh? John was so thrown by this that he found himself going along with it. What in tarnation…?

As Stiles pushed around him to close the door behind them, while simultaneously turning on the basin faucet, John finally found his voice.

“What the –-?”

“Shh. Wait.”

Stiles twisted around and flushed the toilet, then turned to John and said in a hushed tone, “He told you, didn’t he? Holy hell, I didn’t think he would say anything. I mean, I would have said something before, but there are risks, and I didn’t know how you’d take it… I didn’t think he’d... But he told you anyway, huh? You know now, yeah?”

This bought John up short. Stiles was aware of the situation? The question forming about Stiles’ odd and overly dramatic choice of current venue died on his lips. Ah.

Well, as he’d told Derek, his son was sure to work it out eventually. It was just sooner than John would have credited. But then, his son was quick-witted, and Derek hadn’t said how long he’d been ‘befriending’ him.

And if Stiles knew that Derek was carrying a torch for him and hadn’t shut Derek down, well, that put a different spin on things.

“So you’re aware of … this? … About, uh, Derek? You know about this and you’re okay with it?”

“Well, duh.” Stiles threw his hands out like a stage magician’s assistant, one hand smacking into the shower curtain; the other narrowly missing whacking John in the chest. The look on his face said he was questioning his dad’s sanity. “It’s not exactly a secret. Or, well no. It sort of is a secret, uh-huh-huh. I mean, of course, obviously. What am I saying? Super hush-hush and all that. But I worked it out, like, ages back. So yeah, I’ve known for a while.”

“And you’re on board with this?” his father asked, trying to keep an incredulous edge from his voice.

Stiles scrunched his face up.

“Be honest with me here, Stiles. Don’t just tell me what you think I want to hear.”

“Da-ad. Really? I know it must be kind of a shock to you, but—”

“If something’s happened that you’re not completely comfortable with…” John used his tone and his stony stare to emphasise just how seriously he took this; how seriously he wanted Stiles to take this. “If there’s any … intimidation…going on?”

“Whoa. Intimidation, Dad? Really? Well, yeah, okay, Derek looks like he looks. And, you know, he can be all ‘grrr’, clearly. But he’s not like that really. Or, well he is, ‘cause it comes with the territory, I guess. But I’m not in any danger, if that’s what you’re getting at. Not from Derek, leastways.”

“So, you’re okay with this?”

His son shrugged and gave him a soppy, lob-sided grin.

“Fine, I get it. So how do you feel about Derek joining us for dinner?”

Stiles wrinkled up his brow again. “Uh, why? D’you want me to cook or something? Because I didn’t do the grocery shopping thinking we were having guests to feed, but, sure, I’ll rustle something up if you want…”

“No. We’re having pizza.” Did his son want to cook for Derek? Was this a mutual situation? Derek had said as much, hadn’t he? That Stiles had ‘befriended’ _him_. That they trusted one another? Oh. This was beginning to feel like something _way_ more significant than the Lydia Martin saga. Stiles had never offered to cook for Lydia. Guess his kid was growing up.

And was gay.

“Okay. Pizza works for me,” Stiles was saying. “And it’s okay if you get the ‘all the meat you can eat’ heart-attack special – just this once – ‘cause that’s Derek’s favourite too. Um. So, uh. You’re cool with this? With, uh, Derek?”

“Any reason for me not to be?”

“No, no. Of course not, just... Yeah, no, it’s cool. If you’re cool, I’m cool. Yep, we’re all cool. Everything’s cool.”

The noise level in the room lost a handful of decibels as the cistern finished its refill with its customary ‘clunk’.

“Right well, turn off the faucet, grab the menu and order us all some pizzas. And, just for today, deserts too – I’ll have my usual with the chocolate sauce. And get a carton of Ben & Jerry’s we can all share. I don’t care what flavour, as long as it’ll compromise my cholesterol and blood-sugar levels. One night won’t hurt, so deal.”

John opened the bathroom door and paused, looking back. “I’m proud of you, son. And no matter what; I’m always here for you, okay. Been good to talk, but now we should get back to our guest.”

He walked out leaving his son, for once, speechless. He could get used to that.

Back in the lounge, John returned to his seat and eased his holster into a more comfortable position. Usually the gun went into the safe and his uniform on the back of the bedroom door the moment he got home, but tonight he was just too damn tired to struggle up the stairs. He’d just have to be careful not to get any pizza sauce down his front.

Across from him, Derek appeared to be almost vibrating with tension while attempting to look casual thumbing through the sports magazine that had been on the coffee table. He didn’t think the guy was reading it so much as using it as a prop to give his hands something to do, and to suggest that he wasn’t acutely aware that John and his son had both disappeared into the bathroom for a debrief.

Stiles was hovering in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other, as his fingers traced the moulding of the doorframe he was wrapping himself around.

“So, uh, Derek? Wanna Meat Feast and apple pie, like usual?”

As though looking for an answer to some other question, Derek’s gaze zipped back and forth between Stiles and John, before he mumbled, “Yes. Thank you,” with an accompanying incline of his head.

Stiles scuttled off, calling out, “I’ll get vanilla and the peanut butter cup ice cream to go with.”

John took the opportunity to yell back, “Mine’s a stuffed crust,” whilst resigning himself to the thin crust Stiles would inevitably order for him.

Using the remote to silence some rock dinosaur, John looked pointedly at the magazine still in Derek’s hand.

“So Derek, you into sport?”

It was John’s experience that, with the majority of men, and a surprising number of women, most awkward moments could be eased by finding sporting common ground.

“Used to be, sir. Basketball mainly.”

“Ah, basketball. Good combination of skill and athletics. Nothing more exciting than a well-matched game. D’you play?”

“I did, sir.”

“John. Call me John.”

Derek gave that little head-bob of his as the tips of his ears turned pink. It was kind of cute and John was surprised as he realised just how much he wanted to like the man sitting on his couch. Perhaps that was for Stiles’ sake, or perhaps it was because he’d never forgotten the wide-eyed kid with the soot- and tear-stained face.

It wasn’t that John could condone clambering out of windows and over rooves, especially when the window in question was the one to his own son’s bedroom. But given Hale’s past, he’d cut the guy some slack. Besides, John had always been a good judge of character (a trait reinforced by his chosen career), so he’d go with his gut feeling. If the guy did end up breaking Stiles’ heart, at least no blame could be levelled at John’s propensity to play the lawman which, he conceded, might well frighten away potential suitors to his son. Yep, he’d go along with this. For now, at least.

By the time Stiles sidled back into the room, sliding onto the end of the couch nearest his father, John had discovered that Derek had played power forward at BH High well enough to put a scholarship to Stanford within his reach. The Hale tragedy put pay to his dreams of playing for the Stanford Cardinals and, but for some baseball in New York and his daily run on the Preserve these days, Derek had had little opportunity to play sport since. It was clearly something he missed if the wistful look he got when talking about his winning shots was anything to go by.

“So, um, Dad. We good?”

Stiles was leaning forward in his seat, pressed tight against the arm of the couch, his arms across his chest, hands cupping elbows. John gave him his all-purpose ‘talk to me’ face and waited for something more specific. It was a technique he’d perfected while interrogating recalcitrant suspects.

Stiles didn’t disappoint: “You know, with, uh, Derek and … everything?” His hand whacked an arc through the air.

Quite what ‘everything’ encompassed, John was reluctant to imagine; instead he nodded, adding for good measure, “So far.”

Stiles looked surprised, but gave him a broad grin before turning it on Derek with a double thumbs-up for emphasis. He looked genuinely happy and John was grateful he hadn’t allowed his parental worry to drive his emotions when he’d drawn his gun on Derek earlier. He might have been less effective (and more lethal) as the outraged, fearful father, had his police training in restraint and due process not been calling the – metaphorical – shots back then.

“Cool. So we watching the game tonight? Or the ‘viewers’ choice’ Firefly marathon? Which is actually pretty much the entire show, but they’re showing it in order so—”

“The game. I think our guest might enjoy that. That’s okay with you, isn’t it, Derek?”

Derek started as if surprised to be addressed.

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“I told you before: it’s John.” Stiles gaped at his father, then at Derek. “Ballgame it is then. But I’m not sitting through a half hour of over-the-top, overpaid, opinionated drivel, so the TV stays off until the minute the players step out.”

Not that it wasn’t fun listening to his kid’s running commentary of the pre-game hyperbole, but he needed all his faculties to appreciate Stiles’ subtle (and not so subtle) wit, and right now he was pooped. Plus, he was much more interested in their visitor.

“So, Derek, how’d you and my son meet?”

A ‘huh?’ echoed between the ends of the couch, eventually cancelling itself out somewhere in the middle of the cushions.

“I bet there’s a tale there,” John offered, watching Derek do an impression of a deer in headlights, while Stiles shot him a confused look.

“Not much to tell, sir, uh, John.” Derek now had his eyebrows drawn tightly together as he stared at John, a muscle below his eye pulsing.

“No, Dad. Don’t you remember? I told you: me and Scott bumped into Derek out on the Preserve. He accused us of trespassing. Which we totally were, BT-dubs. Although, technically we actually weren’t, because the County owns the land now so…”

“No, son, I meant when did you first realise…about Derek.” John sent the man in question a brief, conspiratorial smile, that was _not_ returned. “There’s always a story.”

Stiles’ face registered mild surprise, but Derek lost every bit of colour, even as his expression took on a defiant ire that John was more used to seeing on captured miscreants as they debated launching a sudden, last-ditch attempt at violent evasion before the handcuffs snapped shut.

“Well, actually,” Stiles said, his mundane tone lacking any romantic nuance, “although I’d known for a while, it wasn’t until I went with Derek to visit his uncle in hospital, about the time of all those ‘animal’ attacks.” Stiles rolled his eyes as he air quoted and huffed out a laugh.

Derek was looking like a grey statue propped on the far end of their couch; even his eyes hard and unblinking. It made John think of that Dr Who show Stiles was devoted to – something about stone angels who’d gone to the dark side. In any other circumstance, he might have found that funny; now it just unsettled him.

“So it was then,” Stiles said, “right there in the hospital, when I saw, well, the other side of Derek, I guess, and I kinda just went, ‘oh wow’. You know, just … well, breath-taking, really. Yeah, I remember having to catch my breath, like literally. I was in shock, I guess, at first, you know. Yeah, it took a bit of getting used to, sure. But … well, it was _awesome_.”

John heard emotion in his son’s voice now; mostly wonder and admiration. He noted that Stiles hadn’t looked to Derek once. Derek though? He had turned, his back against the arm of the couch, his posture softer, and he was gawping at Stiles.

His son, of course, was wittering on blithely, saying, “I mean, like I said, I’d known for a while, and I knew what to expect because of Scott. So, you know, not so much of a surprise as it would have been without Scott to go by. But, yeah: wow!”

Scott? What? Ah… That must have been right around the time the Argent’s had moved to town. Of course. Chris Argent had shot that mountain lion. And Scott had fallen hopelessly in love with Chris’ daughter, Allison. Kids talk, so…

So maybe Stiles had felt a little left out? Maybe that was why he’d developed feelings for a grown man with such glaring issues? Well, it was just like his son to fall for someone so unsuited, but so in need of a friend. Offer Stiles his choice from a litter of puppies and he’d go for the sickly runt that needed the hourly feed and expensive medication every time.

And with Lydia not showing him any interest, even after Jackson had dumped her (Station House gossip could be surprising well-informed, and trivial), was it any wonder his son had gone looking for love in inappropriate places? That Derek still visited his comatose uncle, after all these years, was just the sort of altruistic act Stiles would appreciate in a person.

Right now Stiles was looking very pleased with himself. He seemed to have relaxed too, lolling back, limbs akimbo, in sharp contrast to the earlier tension his posture had exhibited. And, as John was apt to remark, body language doesn’t lie.

Well, ‘wow’ indeed. His kid was in love. Claudia should be here for this.

He needed a drink. He’d have to settle for beer while they had a visitor.

“Stiles, why don’t you get yourself a soda, and bring back a couple of beers for me and Derek.”

John glanced from his son to the other end of the couch and found Derek still staring slack-jawed at Stiles. Stiles didn’t seem to notice as he sprung up with a “Sure thing,” and disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment Stiles was out of earshot Derek leant forward, the hardness back in his eyes, and in the lines of his face and set of his shoulders.

“You told him?” Derek said, conveying in his quiet tone both his incredulity and his anger.

“No, actually I didn’t,” John said, matching Derek’s low volume, giving a pointed look that he hoped expressed his disappointment at Derek thinking he would go back on his word. “Stiles guessed that you’d said something to me. He’s astute like that. He knows, Derek. He knows how you feel about him—”

“Oh, god.” Derek pulled back, the rigid line of his shoulders collapsing.

“—no, it’s good. He knows, and, clearly, he’s okay with it. Although, you two still need to have a conversation about this, but from what he said to me, it seems like this is a mutual thing. I didn’t betray your confidence, Derek. I hope when you get to know me better you’ll know that’s something I would never do. … Unless I’m obliged to by law, of course.” Didn’t harm to add the caveat.

“You’re not lying.” Derek looked like a strong breeze might actually knock him off the sofa.

“Son, I don’t lie; not unless my job or my parental duties require it. Stiles, I will lie for.” Derek shifted uneasily across from him, glancing up towards the kitchen as if Stiles would hear them. “But I don’t have to in this case. Talk to him, Derek. That’s all I ask.”

“Who’s Derek gotta talk too?” Stiles asked as he appeared at the door holding two beer bottles by the neck in one hand, a glass of coke in the other, and with a roll of kitchen paper wedged under an armpit.

“Don’t you know the old adage that eavesdroppers never hear anything to their own advantage?”

“Don’t tell me then, old man. See if I care,” Stiles said, holding out the beers for John to take one, a broad smile settling on his face. His son was happy, really happy. Derek Hale made his son happy.

Stiles set the other beer in front of Derek, dropped the paper roll onto the coffee table, placed his own glass next to it, and sat down in the middle of the couch.

“Oh, and the guy who took our order,” Stiles said, waving a hand in the rough direction of their landline, “asked me if this was the house with, and I quote, ’that psychotic little dog with the teeth’ – like non-psychotic dogs don’t have teeth. What an idiot. Anyway, apparently they won’t deliver to Mr and Mrs Shelby anymore on account of Twinkle savaging some sneakers – while the pizza guy was still wearing them. They said it was either ban home deliveries there or call Animal Control. Personally, I’d stick with the pizza and let Twinkle take his chances.”

“He’s just not been trained correctly,” Derek said, his face pinched. “Dogs need proper discipline and to be given boundaries.”

“Boundaries?” Stiles practically shouted, “Trust me, he has boundaries aplenty: chain-link ones. The bottom half of the Shelby’s fence had to be sunk a foot below ground to stop that mutt digging its way out.”

Derek’s brow wrinkled at that, as though he was about to argue the point, but, sensibly in John’s view, he didn’t engage. Just how well did he know his son?

“I know he’s not that much bigger than a raccoon, but he’s got sharper teeth than even you,” Stiles was saying, flapping a hand in Derek’s direction for some reason. “But, just so you know, Dad: you totally have Derek to thank for Twinkle being docile and obedient right now, because he’s like the best dog whisperer in the history of dog whisperers, with his ‘I’m the Alpha’ party-trick.”

John heard his own, “Party trick?” echoed by Derek, who seemed one part annoyed and two parts confused, his eyebrows doing a complicated dance before conferencing in a sharp ‘v’ formation.

“Don’t be such a sour wolf, Sour Wolf. You know what I mean; you get your Alpha ‘grrr’ on and Twinkle’s tail is between his legs before you can say ‘evil ankle-biter’.”

“Stiles!” Derek choked around the name, eyes darting back and forth between John and his son, a haunted, panicked look—and what the _hell_ was reflecting in Hale’s eyes to make them flash red?

Before John had a chance to look around the source of the reflection, Hale’s eyes were back to their normal greenish mix, though his worried expression remained. Oh to slink off to a warm bath, with the sports pages and a tumbler of Tennessee’s finest.

“Keep yer fur on, big guy. I’m sure Dad’s as grateful as I am that you pulled rank on that yapping terror. I tell you, if that dog jeopardies our pizza deliveries, it won’t live to see another battle with Doris. She’s our mailperson,” Stiles informed Derek. “because seriously, that dog is a menace asking for an accident to happen to it.”

Images of the bloody remains of dog smeared on the roadway that morning assailed John. His appetite disappeared so quickly it left his stomach reeling.

“Can we not talk about this?” John couldn’t help the angry sigh that pushed out after his words. Had he mentioned how tired he was? “I’ve had about as much as I can take of all things canine today. So let’s try to limit the number of traumatic events your dad has to deal with in any one day, huh, son?”

“Uh, sorry, Dad. Yeah, sure. I’d forgotten how mega the whole ‘doggie’ revelation can be.” The air quotes his son flung in the air were excessive, even for him, and ended with all ten digits flexing, claw-like, reminiscent some kind of Halloween pantomime.

Hale stiffened, snagging John’s attention.

“You told your dad—” Derek said, without a hint of emotion in his voice, though his jaw pulsed as he snapped off the sentence. He had one eyebrow raised in disbelief and the other hunkered down reproachfully, although, if John had had to file a report on it, the overall effect was more ‘astonished gratitude’.

“Well, no, technically I just confirmed it but … yeah. I guess it’s good that Dad knows at last.”

At last? How long had this thing between them been going on? And how had he missed his that son’s infatuation had shifted from Lydia Martin to Derek Hale? From a girl to a boy — a man? How had he missed his son falling for this guy? Scratch that. How had he missed an older man paying attention to his teenage son in the first place? What else had he missed?

Good grief. John had been so wrapped up in trying to keep Beacon Hills safe (and look how well that had turned out) that he’d failed to protect his only child. Now, John’s neglect would mean some uncomfortable soul-searching, involving bitter recrimination and some tears. Likely for Stiles too.

He took a long pull from his beer.

Derek was saying to his son, “I wasn’t sure how you felt about …”

“Me neither, TBH. I know I was firmly in the ‘when hell freezes over’ camp for a while there,” Derek blinked, “but yeah, I’m glad we don’t have to hide stuff from Dad anymore.”

“Hey,” John said, reminding them he was still in the room. “Around me, you still have to hide … stuff … okay. I don’t want to see – or hear – anything you two get up to.”

“Ew. Way to make it sound sleazy, Dad.”

“I just don’t want to know anything about … what’s going on. I’m going for ‘plausible deniability’ here, son. Understood?” He was the Sheriff, dammit all. He couldn’t be seen to condone … this.

“Dad! It’s not as if Derek gets into trouble deliberately. And it’s not always his fault. It’s just that he’s kinda had a lot of bad luck. I mean, sure, some shi—some stuff’s gonna happen: the territorial fights and supernatural pissing contests. That’s just the nature of the bea—uh, it’s just the way it is.

“But like, you need to cut Derek some slack here, Dad, and not get all judge-y and put barriers up. I mean, how would Scott have survived if I’d had that attitude, huh?

“And they’re not all the same, Dad. Just ask Scott, yeah. Likewise, the hunters, ‘cause Alison’s dad isn’t nearly as Fruit Loops as her gramps. Though Chris is still kinda scary, in my humble...

“Yeah, anyway Dad, so, Derek may be a bit scary too – to some people, I guess – but he doesn’t deserve to be discriminated against just because he’s a werewolf.”

John was sure his own expression mirrored the look of horror on Derek’s face as they both stared at his son.

Werewolf? What even…?

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John misses the ballgame, but gets to dine ringside with a Smithsonian exhibit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today (19th) is my dad’s 83rd birthday. He has Alzheimer’s and, sadly, my own health prevents me being with him today. So, this story about a dad is dedicated to my father. Happy Birthday, Dad.

 

“Werewolf?” John had to ask, although his instincts told him not to encourage his son’s flights of fancy, especially in front of their visitor.

“Uh yeah. Werewolf. Derek. But Derek’s a good werewolf. Like Scott. Not like Peter, or the Alpha pack, or Jackson – duh – or, well … Isaac’s an acquired taste in my opin—”

“Stiles. What the hell are you talking about, son?” 

“Uh, werewolves?” 

“Why?”

Stiles stilled, brow furrowed, his eyes bright and darting between his father and Derek; Derek whose face was now closed off, devoid of any discernible sentiment, aside from the flush and the bright red tips to his ears.

“Why? Huh? Well, you said about Derek …  Wait.” His son’s eyes grew big and John recognised the look felons get when they suddenly work out they’re facing a long custodial sentence with no wiggle-room. “You weren’t telling me that Derek told you he was a werewolf, were you? Oh my god. What were you two talking about? What was it you knew about? That Derek told you? If it wasn’t about werewolves?”

“Why would Derek talk to me about creatures from a horror movie, Stiles? Do you want to explain to me what the hell _you’re_ talking about? Is it the Adderall? Did you take too much? Mix it with something you shouldn’t? You need to tell me, son. I can call Mel, she’ll know what to do.”

“What? No? Da-ad. Really? I haven’t tried mixing it up with my Adderall since—yeah, never mind. It’s nothing like that. But I don’t get it. You said Derek _told_ you. I thought that meant he … I don’t understand. You said you were traumatised. That you didn’t want to hear anymore dog references.”

“Dog references? Oh, yes. There was an animal-involved fatal TA out on Henty, first thing. I spent all morning looking at a smashed-up car with major tree incursion, and a dog’s insides spread across the road,” John said, pushing his fingers into his hair and over his scalp as if he could push the memory away. “Not really something I want to be reminded of.”

“A traffic accident? Oh. But, I don’t get it. What did Derek tell you about?”

“Stiles,” Derek said, and Stiles’ head whipped around so quickly it had John thinking about coup/contra-coup injuries. “I didn’t tell your father about werewolves.” Derek’s voice dropped so it was barely audible from where John was sitting when he continued, “I told him how I felt. About you.”

With his jaw hanging open, Stiles started to shake his head slowly.

John felt obliged to add, “You told me you felt the same. About Derek.”

“What?”

“You told me you had feelings for Derek.”

“Feelings?”

Stiles was looking at his father like he’d just told him he was adopted – from a family of passing extra-terrestrials – while Derek looked like he _wanted_ to be adopted by extra-terrestrials and beamed up to their spaceship immediately. John could sympathise; many conversations with Stiles had him wanting to be whisked away by aliens (or questioning if he’d woken up on a distant planet that day – like now). 

“Feelings, Stiles. You said you had _feelings_ for Derek.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did, and I’ll thank you to not make me out to be a liar in front of our guest. Back in the bathroom, when you were playing at some ridiculous secret service shenanigans with the faucet, you said you knew how Derek felt about you—”

“No. What even… No, _you_ said you knew about Derek being a werew— Oh fu-fudge. That’s not what you … Wait. Derek doesn’t hate me?” His head shot round again to face the man next to him on the couch. “You don’t hate me?”

Derek raised a sluggish shoulder, looking as if he couldn’t decide how he felt. John could relate to his confusion where his son was concerned.

Stiles carried on regardless, “So, you didn’t tell him about werewolves?”

“No, Stiles. I wouldn’t ever. Not unless you’d specifically asked me to. I know how you feel about that.” Derek’s voice was low and the tone insistent. “So, no, I didn’t tell your father about werewolves.” 

John’s fingers twitched with the need to feel the grip of his sidearm. He’d had enough of this.

“Will someone tell me what the hell werewolves have got to do with the price of eggs.”

Over Stiles’ unsubtle, “Oh fuckety-fuck-fuck,” he heard Derek saying, “Sir, I can explain.”

Before John could insist, ‘someone better had’, Stiles was telling Derek, “You’d better show him. I guess we ought to tell him now. You can trust him, you know that, right? So, we should probably … If that’s okay with you, I mean?”

“We don’t have to.” Derek had twisted further around to face Stiles, making John feel like an intruder in his own lounge. “I know you wanted to protect your dad from this. I can just leave. You can blame the supernatural project we were working on together. You know, the ‘project’. The _reason_ I came ‘round here in the first place? We don’t have to do this.”

“No. There’s no stuffing this cat back in the bag without a fuck-ton of bites and scratches that are likely to get infected and lead to amputations and eventual septicaemia, if the rabies doesn’t get us first. No, better just rip off the Band-Aid. Uh, if you’re cool with that?”

“Are you sure? I’m okay with it, if you are. I trust you, and you trust your father. But … are you certain this is what you want?”

“Yeah, I—”

“What the hell is going on here?” John was so done with this. Never mind the topic (what even?), the nature of this discussion seemed intimate, to a degree that had John’s hackles rising. “Does someone want to explain? This instant.”

“Dad, its okay. There’s been a misunderstanding. Derek doesn’t have feelings for me. As if! He was just trying to be nice – he does that sometimes, like, for no reason. And it seems he doesn’t actually hate me so, y’know, bonus. 

“But the thing he meant to say – he’s not good with words, but you get used to reading between the grunts and scowls – yeah so, the thing that I thought he had told you, it was about what he is – and Scott too. And, Dad, I know it’s hard to believe, but Derek is a werewolf.” 

His son shrugged at him and plastered that silly grin on his face, as if he was a six-year-old again, standing with another broken plate or mug dashed to pieces at his feet in his enthusiasm to help his mother in the kitchen. 

“Stiles.” The warning tone was well rehearsed. John wasn’t convinced that he _had_ misunderstood Derek, but equally, he wasn’t convinced he knew what the heck was happening here anymore.

“No Dad, I’m not punkin’ you. This is for real. Just don’t freak out, okay. Derek’s not dangerous—” 

A … growling? ... noise rumbled up from somewhere. It was loud, even for Stiles’ hungry stomach.

“—Nah, quit that, Derek. I told you before, that’s not helping. Dad, he’s not dangerous _to you_ , or to me, well not unless I use him as bait to get Danny to—um, yeah, now _I’m_ not helping.”

Derek sighed noisily, giving Stiles a sidelong glance full of judgement, but also, it seemed to John, full of warmth; affection even. A look that the guy delivered with the ease of someone who had been driven to it many times in the company of his son. Stiles, for his part, turned his head and poked his tongue out at the guy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It all seemed so … prosaic, so _Stiles_ , yet his son was having some sort of mental health episode. If this was due to the side-effects of Stiles’ medication, he’d sue the pants of that damned paediatrician. That quack would regret the day he tangled with the Stilinskis, and that was a promise.

Stiles’ attention was back on John with a smirk and a small hitch of his shoulder. “Dad, I just mean that Derek won’t hurt you. Okay? He’s just Derek, even if sometimes he looks a little Lon Chaney Junior-ish.”

What in God’s name…? 

“Stiles.” There was a pleading quality in his own voice that John hadn’t intended. Could this not wait until they were alone. Neither of them needed a witness to his son’s break from reality.

“No seriously, Dad, just sit there and Derek’ll show you. But no guns, okay? ‘ _This discussion does not require a weapons discharge_.’ I mean it.”

Stiles twisted around, shimmying a few inches along the couch into Derek’s personal space. They exchanged looks that John couldn’t begin to parse, then they gave each other weak little smiles, before Stiles said, in something like a whisper that made John feel even more like an interloper in his own home, “Please, Derek, it’ll be okay, honest. I promise.”

Watching this play out, John was reminded of what Derek had said earlier; that they trusted each other. After everything that had happened to Derek Hale, the guy trusted Stiles. In that moment, John felt inordinately proud of his son, and unaccountably pleased that Derek had someone in his corner.

There was another brief and silent discussion between the two on the sofa, in which something seemed to be agreed, then Derek was focussing on John again.

“Sir, I will never hurt you or your son. I give you my word. Please don’t be alarmed.”

And then John was blinking and catching his breath because …

 

What? 

 

Across the coffee table, _alongside his son_ , Derek Hale had morphed into something ungodly, something demonic, with luminous red eyes. 

Hair had sprouted everywhere, giving the guy sideburns like a villain from a 1970’s cop show, with ears that could give Mr Spock a run for his money. His brow ridge, now lacking those expressive eyebrows, looked like it had come straight from the Neanderthal exhibit at the Smithsonian that John had seen on the Discovery Channel only last week. 

Shiny white points had appeared from beneath the guy’s upper lip, highlighted and cushioned against the lower lip, which… What the… Were they _fangs_? And, oh good heavens, were those _claws_ at the ends of his fingers? 

John’s hand was closing around the grip of his gun—

A two-tone melody rang out like a siren against his eardrums.

All three occupants of the room jerked like 10,000 volts had just shot through their seats. It was a testament to John’s early military experience, and his own innate motor control, that he didn’t react by shooting anyone (or his own thigh). 

“Pizza,” Stiles announced, with a goofy grin and a full-body shrug.

Pizza? No frenetic, early-warning barking from Twinkle? What the hell had Hale done to that damn pooch? And what the hell was Hale anyway? Oh dear Lord. 

Movement drew John’s eye, and Derek – regular issue Derek – was standing, not a hint of shaggy hair, pointy ears, or satanic eyes about him, his eyebrows back in their deep v-formation as if they’d never been away. 

“I’ll get this, sir,” Derek was saying as he stepped away from the couch towards the hallway.

John wasn’t sure what sort of response to give to that; he wasn’t sure he could make a response of any sort just yet. He glanced at his son, who seemed just fine, and was staring up at Derek with a small smile. A fond smile. Not just a ‘you’re going to bring me pizza so I like you’ smile. Not by a long way. Oh crap.

The scene now in front of him was so … relaxed, so ordinary, that he couldn’t have witnessed what he thought he had mere seconds before. 

Back in college, in those early days just after he’d met Claudia, he’d had a bad reaction to some stuff he’d been given as part of some hazing malarkey. Back then, he’d hallucinated giant flying squirrels waving flowers like Morrissey. 

Logically, this ‘demonic Derek’ delusion might well be the result of an acid trip. Maybe his beer had been tampered with? It wasn’t likely; but sane explanations were thin on the ground about now.

He could hear a rumble of conversation from the front door, so he knew he hadn’t dreamt up Derek Hale completely. But the rest? Had he really been working so hard lately that he was having waking nightmares? That had to be it, right?

“Dad? Dad, it’s okay.”

Stiles was leaning forward across the low table, forearms pressed to his knees, eyes scanning John’s face.

“What is he? Hale. What is he?”

“Uh, werewolf, duh.”

“You… you saw that too?”

“Jeez, Dad, yeah, of course I did. Derek’s a werewolf. But, like, he’s a good werewolf. He’s a good guy all round, to be honest. He just likes to hide that away so no-one would guess. But he’s a really okay guy when you get to know him. You’re the one who’s _always_ telling me to never judge a book by its cover so … you need to, like, see past the fangs, and the claws, and the threats and stuff.”

“He’s … he’s a…”

“Werewolf. Yes. Like Scott. I told you already.”

Really? This was ludicrous. Werewolves were a myth, a thing you scared gullible cinema audiences and kids at Halloween with. They weren’t real. None of this was real. 

He’d tell Hannah not to pick him up until late tomorrow, take a couple of Ambien and catch up on his sleep. As for this frankly ludicrous allegation about Mel’s kid, well…

“Scott’s not a werewolf, Stiles.” 

“Uh yeah, he kinda is. Scott got bit by Pe—by … a _pest_ , a crazed, rogue werewolf, and that turned him into a werewolf too. How else would Finstock have put him on first line, right?”

“First line?” Never mind the Ambien, he was gonna need Tylenol for the headache. “But you got first line. Are you—” 

“No. A world of no. I’m not a werewolf. I actually _can_ play lacrosse, who knew. Oh, and thanks for vote of confidence in my sporting ability there, Pops. Yes, I can play lacrosse. And I like being human, FYI. So, no, I’m not a werewolf, and everyone, with the possible exception of Pet—um, the _pest_ , is real happy to keep it that way. 

“But, Dad there are other werewolves in Beacon Hills, not just Derek and Scott. And there are hunters too – werewolf hunters. The Argent family? They’re all werewolf hunters; have been for centuries, if you believe the hype. They’re supposed to stick to a ‘code’,” his son flexed two fingers of both hands in the air – as though he was talking of something ridiculous Scott had said at school. “And there are other supern— 

Stiles’ head whipped around towards the doorway, a smile splashed across his face. Derek was coming back with pizza boxes and cartons balanced on one arm and bags hanging from the other. He looked like any other young man carrying a take-out wearing a leather jacket (why the heck hadn’t he taken the thing off?). 

Without conscious thought, John found himself shifting onto one hip to get at his wallet. 

“No sir, I’ve got this. Least I can do,” Derek said, placing the boxes on the table. Stiles was already out of his seat, fishing out the napkins and extra dips, unhooking the bags from Derek’s arm, and sorting through the cartons to grab up the hot desserts. Was this a regular thing they did?

A quiet, ‘thanks’ from Stiles, got a murmured ‘it’ll be okay,’ and a small smile from Derek, before Stiles turned to John.

“I’m going to put the desserts in the insulated bag, and the ice cream in the freezer – if I can find any room; it’s like something the Titanic ran into in there. Don’t shoot Derek while I’m gone. He’s one of the good guys, even if he does make some questionable decisions sometimes. But just so you know, Dad: if you do anything to hurt him I’ll never forgive you. ‘Kay?”

With his challenge issued, his son swivelled on his heel and stalked off into the kitchen with his bounty.

“Uh, I’m sorry to shock you like this, sir,” Derek said, still standing in front of the couch. “And I understand if you’d like me to leave now. You probably want some time alone with Stiles to talk this over and digest all this. But if you have any questions, ones Stiles can’t answer, I will answer them as fully and as honestly as I’m able. Scott is new to this so it’s probably best not to rely on his limited experience.”

John could only nod slowly, because at that moment he was pretty surprised he was still able to breath, much less form words.

“I’m sorry you had to find out, sir. In this way. I know this isn’t what Stiles wanted. He wanted to protect you from all this. I’m sorry. Goodnight, sir.”

There was that curt little bob of his and then Derek was stepping stiffly to the hallway.

“Hey!” Stiles was back and at Derek’s side. “Where d’you think you’re going?”

“It’s okay, Stiles. I think it’s best I leave you and your dad—”

“No.” John heard his son echo his own uninflected word.

Okay, good. He’d found his voice. Didn’t mean he wanted to wade straight in with a full-blown interrogation. Every cop knows it’s best to let the suspect stew for a bit while you think through your strategy and chase down loose ends.

“Derek. You’ll sit down. We’ll eat. I may have a few questions. Then we’ll watch the ballgame. Then I’ll have more questions. And you will stay and answer my questions until I’m satisfied. Is that clear?”

Derek’s sober, ‘yes, sir,’ was nearly drowned out by his son’s whining voice: “Dad you can’t grill Derek like he’s a criminal. He’s our guest and—”

“Stiles. You can sit down too. And shut up. Derek, you’ll indulge me in this or I’ll indulge my instinct to shoot first and ask my questions much later, if at all. Got it?” 

The pair in front of him seemed to engage in a wordless dialogue involving eyebrows (Derek) and pouts (his son). Derek took his seat again and John watched transfixed as the guy looked up pointedly at Stiles, then down at the seat next to him, and then back up at Stiles. When Stiles just jutted out his hip and glowered back, Derek’s eyebrows shifted up a notch and he repeated his visual command. Rolling his eyes theatrically, his son sighed loudly, but then flopped down into the space alongside Derek. 

John wished he could have videoed the entire exchange to review later; FBI profilers would give their eye-teeth to study that. Oh. Maybe talk of cuspids wasn’t helpful in light of his recent delusion. He shook the thought from his mind and attempted to refocus on dinner.  

Stiles, clearly having recovered from his petulance, was dividing the flat-boxed spoils with gusto. Taking his box from Stiles abstractedly, John didn’t baulk at the clear plastic container balanced on top with a salad inside and a spork inlaid into the lid. He even let Stiles take charge of the TV remote, not objecting when he switched on the game well before either team had shown their faces on the field.

As his son provided Derek with a critique of the pre-game commentary, interspersed with a discourse as to why it was important to restrict salt intake, John moved his salad around it’s container with the back of his plastic affront to cutlery.

There was a lot to take in, not least the strangeness of sitting listening to Stiles rattle on like everything was perfectly normal. Nothing was normal. Not anymore. It couldn’t be.

The game started and by the time he’d abandoned the salad in favour of picking lumps of some type of barbequed protein from his pizza, John couldn’t have said what the score was or even who was playing. 

When he looked at the TV screen, all he could see was the reflection of Derek sitting on his couch, eating pizza out of its box like a regular person. Derek’s mirror-image was sufficiently blurred that John’s brain kept trying to force it into the form he had seen earlier (the shape he was calling Cro-Magnon, because the other word, the one Stiles kept using, was absurd and deeply concerning. A throwback to an early hominid seemed more plausible and infinitely preferable). 

With some effort, John shifted his attention to his own pizza, twisting slightly in his seat to slant himself more towards the couch than the TV with its hazy reminder of distant cousins from the Neander Valley. 

Now he could see the Derek he had arrested last year (or was it the year before); the Derek with the bluish-green-grey eyes Hannah had argued with Tara (may she rest in peace) about how to categorise for their database; the Derek who wore that scuffed, slightly-too-long-in-the-sleeve leather jacket (fortunately now slung over the back of the couch – and when did that happen?); the Derek who was indulging his son in listening to his chatter and making the occasional comment (although mostly of the non-verbal kind, which, sadly, didn’t discourage John’s prehistoric musings); the Derek who his son was comfortable with. 

His son. 

Stiles knew _this_ Derek. And the other Derek too, if anything that had happened since Hannah had dropped him off this evening had been real. And his son didn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest. 

John noted how both were facing the coffee table, yet were angled inwards, towards each other, both clearly comfortable with, and accustomed to, such proximity. They were close enough that, as Stiles swooped to grab another slice or go for his drink, his knee would knock against Derek’s, and Derek just kept right on eating. When Stiles jostled him enough to knock his elbow, Derek used his shoulder to push back at him in a sideswipe that seemed more playful than irritated. Then when Stiles overreached and nearly slid from the couch, Derek’s hand was cupping his elbow and hoisting him back before Stiles could knock his teeth out on the edge of the low table. 

As John watched, Stiles snatched up a piece of pepperoni from Derek’s pizza, Derek swatting his hand away with faux-indignation and a small smile creasing the corner of his mouth. Then Derek liberated a slice of his pizza and dumped it into Stiles’ box, and John saw Stiles beam back at him before launching into a gory explanation of the origins of lacrosse, which had Derek rolling his eyes. Again.

When Derek helped himself to one of the chicken wings, Stiles rifled through a takeout bag to find ‘that god-awful sauce you like’. Then he watched with growing wonder as Stiles picked off pineapple chunks from his own Hawaiian before plopping two slices of his denuded pizza into Derek’s box. He’d never known Stiles share his pizza, not even with Scott (leftovers generally ended up in the fridge for the next day’s lunch – or breakfast). And his son had always argued, loudly and with passion, that a Hawaiian without pineapple was like Star Wars without light sabres and an affront to the Gods of Hawaii (who he would then go on to name, ascribing their particular area of governance or responsibilities, though heaven knows when – or why – his son had become so knowledgeable about Polynesian gods).

Neither of the pair across the coffee table seemed aware of John’s interest in them. As he took slow deliberate bites from his own flavourless pizza, he saw Derek drain the last of his beer, and then Stiles was asking if he’d like some sparkling mineral water, as though he knew Derek would prefer the water over beer. John wasn’t sure what he found the most unsettling about that; that Stiles knew Derek’s beverage preference so well, or that Derek wasn’t much of a beer drinker. 

And since when did they have _mineral water_ in the house? 

As John carefully corralled his abandoned (thin) crusts away from the untouched portion of his pizza, he heard Derek huff at one of Stiles’ awful puns in a way that suggested he had heard the joke, or something similar, many times before. Derek had turned slightly and dipped his head as if to hide his grin. (Probably on account of his prominent – though fortunately human – front teeth, which made the guy look kind of goofy and nixed the bad-boy image quicker than a lace jabot.)

Stiles elbowed Derek in the ribs and tossed the last chicken wing into the guy’s pizza box, telling him at least he wouldn’t have to raid the henhouse tonight. 

Raid the henhouse. Wolves not foxes in this henhouse. Werewolves. 

John cleared his throat. The pair on the couch startled, and he realised they had been so wrapped up in each other’s company that everything else had dropped off their radar; his presence, and the ballgame, forgotten.

“Are we ready for dessert?” he asked.

“I was born ready for dessert,” Stiles said as he began stacking boxes and cartons. “Lemme get rid of the empties and I’ll go grab the ice cream – if the freezer will give up its treasure. I may need an ice-pick or a flamethrower.”

“Go easy with the flamethrower; I’m still making payments on that thing.” 

It felt like a normal evening. Perhaps it was. John wasn’t sure if he was the best judge of ‘normal’ anymore. So many strange incidents had happened in his town in the last couple of years, and now this… Oh.

Might there be a connection; a coincidence, a pattern? Was Derek the reason Beacon Hills was no longer the quiet town it used to be?

Derek Hale. Derek, who was scooping up crumbs from the table into one of the empty cartons. 

At that moment, both to satisfy his curiosity and save his sanity, John had an overwhelming desire to see Derek transmogrify into the creature once more. And at the same time, he never wanted to see it ever again. 

When Stiles tottered into the kitchen carrying his own weight of cardboard and Styrofoam, John seized his opportunity and muted the TV.

“Derek? Would you mind … “

“Leaving? Of course, sir.” Derek started to push up from his seat.

Really? Again? Boy, was this guy jumpy. 

“No, I meant, would you mind … doing that … that thing you do?” John motioned at his own face with two fingers of his hand. “I’m not sure I wasn’t hallucinating before. Been a long day.”

“If you’re sure?”

John nodded. Derek craned his neck from side to side and then he was Cro-Magnon Man again. 

It was just a shocking as it had been the first time, but now he could take a little while to really look at the guy. It wasn’t make-up. It wasn’t sleight-of-hand, or smoke and mirrors. He stared at Derek and Derek stared back at him with eyes that faded from red to his usual green (‘not hazel, Hannah, just stick him under _green_ , for pity’s sake’).

John was jolted back to reality by Stiles’ disembodied voice cursing the parentage of their just-out-of-warranty freezer.

“Uh, thank you, Derek. That’s, uh, that’s fine.” Derek’s features softened and the hair and brow ridge just seemed to melt away until John could believe he’d imagined the prehistoric features. 

“So, uh, how long have you, uh…?” His fingers waggled in front of his face again.

“All my life, sir. I was born like this. As a werewolf.”

The guy could have been saying he was born left-handed for all the emotion he displayed. John nodded. 

“So, are there many … like you?”

“I don’t know the statistics, sir. But—”

“John.”

“John. But, yes, there are others. Here in Beacon Hills. And others in California, other States, and abroad. Europe and Asia. Werewolves are worldwide. It’s just in some places we have been hunted to near-extinction.”

“Hunted? Ah, yes. Hunters. Stiles said something about that.”

“What’d I say?” Stiles said as he re-entered the room carrying a tray laden with an assortment of cartons, bowls and cutlery. “If it was incriminating, I categorical deny it and reserve the right to call on the services of an attorney.”

Derek’s posture slackened. “Idiot. You were saying about hunters, earlier,” he said.

Stiles set down the tray and started sorting out their desserts.

“Oh yeah. Dad, you should know there are two sorts of hunters; some who go by a ‘code’ and assholes who don’t.”

“Language.”

“Sorry, Dad, but I call it as I see it. And you would too if you’d seen what I have. Am I right, Derek?”

What the hell had his son seen? Just what was he caught up in?

“Um, how about we tell your Dad about werewolves first? We’ll bring him up to speed on everything, but let’s start with the basics.”

“Okey-dokey. Oh, I got them to put extra cinnamon on your pie.”

Derek’s lip twitched at that, like he was suppressing a grin.

Just when John thought his evening couldn’t get any weirder, his son was having a conversation about real-life werewolf hunters and apple pie. Derek was hiding a smirk, while Stiles dished up ice cream with a bona fide ice cream scoop that John didn’t know they possessed. And, horror-movie subtext aside, it was just so damn … domestic. 

“Right, Derek,” John said, finding it easier to focus on the fantasy/horror threat across from him, rather than the Good Housekeeping tableau that had him thinking of Claudia and grandkids, “Explain this to me. From the beginning. Slowly and in full. Leave nothing out and don’t stop unless I ask you a question.”

“Nuh-uh. Derek, you have the right to remain silent—”

“You, young man, will pipe down and eat your – what even is that?”

“Pecan pie and dough bits with a hot fudge brownie – although it’s lukewarm now – toasted coconut flakes and—”

“I’m pretty sure I meant that to be rhetorical. Okay, Derek, start from how you are … what you are and we’ll go from there.”

So Derek did. 

He explained about born and bitten werewolves, about his family of both werewolves and humans, and about Alphas and how pack hierarchies worked. Werewolves, it seemed were stronger and faster than humans and had augmented senses. (‘One more dog joke and I’ll eat your pie’ Derek had threatened. To which his son had replied, ‘What’s that Lassie? Timmy’s stuck down the well?’ Derek had snapped his – thankfully, still human – teeth at Stiles’ dessert and Stiles had dumped a spoonful of pie in Derek’s bowl with a ‘Good dog, Lassie’. What even…?)

In answer to John’s query, Derek told him that transforming wasn’t painful but could be uncomfortable, especially when you were new to it. He explained the effect of the full moon and how those newly … inducted … could struggle with control and would find it painful until they found their ‘anchor’ and had learnt how to manage their ‘shift’.

John found out about hunters, about the hunter code, and about Chris Argent’s real reason for being in Beacon Hills. He heard how Derek’s uncle, Peter, had recovered, eventually, from the physical injuries he’d sustained from the fire that had claimed the lives of so many of the Hale family, including Peter’s pregnant wife and their young daughter. (John didn’t think he’d be able to survive something like that and keep his sanity. Losing Claudia had been bad enough, but _he’d_ had Stiles to keep him from putting his service weapon in his own mouth.)

Stiles chipped in with clarifications or, amazingly for him, to keep Derek focused on the broad strokes rather than getting caught up in the detail. John thought there was more to some elements of the story than they were saying, but his immediate need was to understand the wider picture, so he curbed his impulse to dig deeper. For now.

Mostly, they both let Derek explain things at his own, steady pace; a stilted narrative that, for all the guy’s dead-pan delivery, oozed pain and loss like a fresh amputation, as if the fire had been yesterday and not the best part of a decade ago.

The shocks kept coming: Scott had been bitten by Peter (while, Stiles stressed, Peter was suffering from a psychotic break bought on by Kate Argent coming back to town) and Mel now knew that her son was a … was one of those. That sweet kid, Isaac, too. (John didn’t want to admit how hurt he felt that Mel had not confided in him; that she’d had to deal with Scott’s … transformation on her own.)

He was disconcerted to find that bullets had little effect on Derek and his kind, but intrigued that certain plant extracts could prove fatal to them. They also had enhanced healing abilities, which explained why Scott had seemed to suddenly grow out of his asthma.

At one point, Derek mentioned Gerard Argent, Chris’ supercilious father. Stiles deftly turned him back to how Chris stuck to the hunters’ code, even if others in his family hadn’t, effectively shutting down any further examination of Argent senior, and leaving John to file that away to come back to at another time; there was a story there, he was sure.

From time to time, John did interrupt, usually to clear up something he was confused about. No matter how awkward or combative John’s questions were, Derek always answered with patience and equanimity, and invariably Stiles would make this little smile at Derek, or mouth ‘thank you’ at him, when he did.  

Over the years of interrogating all manner of people in stressful situations (and being Stiles’ father, it can’t be denied) John had developed a fairly robust bullshit detector. He couldn’t sense any deception from Derek, as far-fetched as his account might be, but then again, Derek wasn’t your average interviewee. For now, John decided to go with his gut, and believe that the guy believed what he was saying. Beyond that, he chose to reserve judgement. 

The part of the exposé John found he took issue with the most, was Derek admitting to … making … creatures like himself from four of Stiles’ classmates. John racked his brains for some statute that would cover ‘turning a minor into a fictional(!) beast without parental consent’, but couldn’t think of one damn way to bring Derek to book for it. It couldn’t be right, no matter how much his son protested that they had all known the risks, had all been willing ‘converts’, and were all better off now they were out of harm’s way, stronger and healthier.

John was also disturbed by the notion that one of those kids could have been his own son. Unaware of the nature of the danger Stiles faced, John would have been powerless to protect him.

“Pfft,” Stiles had said, “like I’d be at risk. Only the cool kids get invited to join the pack. Something about looking good in leather. Pretty much rules me out.”

“You _are_ pack, idiot,” Derek had replied, “You know you don’t have to be a werewolf to be a pack member. And leather? Really, Stiles? No-one said you wouldn’t look good in leather, or that you can’t be a werewolf wearing ridiculous layers of tees, plaids and hoodies – that’s just absurd. Besides, you don’t want to be a werewolf.  Has that changed?”

“Nope, I like my frail and puny humanness, thank you very much,” Stiles had replied, flicking the lid of a Ben & Jerrys carton at Derek. It went wide.

“Not really all that frail or puny. I seem to remember you treading water for two hour—”

“Okay, so that’s a story for another time. So tell dad about Lydia. Bet he can’t guess what Lydia is.”

Eventually, their conversation dwindled, and John noticed that the dessert cartons had been cleared away. Also, when had the television been turned to a music channel?

John was used to absorbing and processing information gleaned from interrogations on the fly. But this? Learning that your son was running around town with actual werewolves would be difficult enough to come to terms with, but after the day he’d had…? He could have wished for better timing. Although, he guessed there’d never be a ‘good’ time for that kind of disclosure. Right now though, John was beyond tired.

“I’m gonna need a few hours to get my head ‘round all of this. Thank you for your frankness, Derek. I’m sure none of this was easy for you either.”

“No, sir. I don’t normally … for obvious reasons. But I’m glad you know now, sir. I think it will be easier for Stiles now, and for yourself when something … out of the ordinary happens that catches the attention of your office. It’s right you should know.”

“Anyway, I appreciate it. And it’s ‘John’, for the umpteenth time.” Derek gave his parsimonious nod as John struggled to his feet. “Well, kids, it’s past my bedtime so I’ll bid you goodnight and take my leave. Don’t leave it long, Stiles. 

“Derek, it’s been … interesting. You’ll accept my invitation to lunch on Sunday, but you may be hearing from me tomorrow too. I expect you to be available should I have any more questions.” Another tight nod from the guy. “And Stiles? You and I will talk about this, don’t think we won’t.”

“Yes, Dad,” his son said, his words affecting a peeved exasperation, just like any teenager when being told to be home before curfew.

After a hug between father and son and a round of ‘goodnight’s, John clapped his hand on Derek’s shoulder as he passed, in a gesture he intended as both paternal and as a warning. 

He’d have some serious thinking to do tomorrow, but just now his bed was calling him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself at sea, but Stiles rolls with the swell and finds a life-raft for them all. And maybe Derek allows himself a new anchor. Ship Ahoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Land has been sighted and we near the end of our travels. I hope this journey has been a good one. A big thank you to all of you who comment, leave kudos, or just do me the honour of sparing a moment from your day to read my ramblings.

Dragging himself up the staircase on legs that felt like they might betray him at any moment, John mulled over the events of that evening, questions forming that demanded sober, rational answers.

Not questions about werewolves or werewolf hunters, or how to broach with Mel the lunatic subject of Scott’s hirsute transmutation. No, he was wondering about the nature of his son’s relationship with the shiftless, superficially surly, suspiciously stalker-ish, psychologically stunted, shapeshifting twenty-something, Derek Hale. And Hale seemingly being a separate species was scarcely a drop in that particular ocean.

John used the upstairs bathroom on autopilot, oblivious to his surroundings as he tried to put his jumbled thoughts into some semblance of order. But as he flushed the toilet and twisted the faucet, the discordant sounds of splashing water, knocking pipes and clunking cistern startled him out of one stupor, and plunged him straight into another. The cacophony had catapulted him back to when he’d been cloistered in the downstairs bathroom, with Stiles playing a character from a John le Carré novel (or _'Get Smart'_ ). 

Memories flooded back with the force of a tidal wave, the wash leaving unformed thoughts in its wake, lying in a jumbled heap on the foreshore of John’s mind for him to pick through and make sense of – if there was any sense to be had.

He had thought that Stiles knew that Derek was attracted to him, and was comfortable with that. John had even told Derek that his son returned his feelings. But, of course, he and Stiles had been talking at cross-purposes. Did Derek understand that? Did Stiles?

For all the obvious ‘affection’ (sadly, he knew no better word) that he’d seen his son show towards Derek, wasn’t that just Stiles being Stiles? The runt-of-the-litter scenario all over again? It didn’t mean his son had feelings for the guy beyond just wanting to help the underdog (pun not intended and somehow hugely inappropriate now).

John cursed himself, as his stomach flopped about like a freshly landed fish. He’d just left his trusting, kind-hearted, naïve son in the clutches of a monster who could hide in plain sight and who thought his son returned his own romantic feelings. How was he so stupid? How could he be so derelict in his parental duties?

Not stopping to turn off the faucet, John grabbed up a towel as he fled the room, intent on liberating his son from the deluded desires of a damaged and demonic delinquent with the druthers for looking dangerous in dark glasses and darker leather.

In the hallway, floating up from the lounge, John could hear the soulful strain of that CD Stiles seemed to be addicted to. A female singer (John thought he ought to know her name) was telling the world she was better off without her ex, while under the lyrics Stiles was talking in hushed tones that had John pausing at the head of the staircase. 

“—and then he said he knew. Well, what was I supposed to think, dude? There’s only one humongous secret in Beacon Hills. I mean, c’mon, what else was it gonna be? We’ve been taken over by lizard people? No, wait. Bad example. But you know what I mean. And so when you said you wanted to talk to Dad _in private_ ,” John would have put money on his son’s fingers etching ‘bunny’s ears’ in the air, “what was I supposed to think you were gonna tell him, huh? That Ben & Jerry’s are bringing out a new flavour for the fall?”

John’s hand curled around the banister rail, holding himself steady and attempting to quell his queasiness, while quickly quashing his qualms about listening in. It was his house, dammit, and his _teenage_ son.

“Why would I tell him about werewolves, Stiles?” Derek said, his voice sounding as brittle as John’s sanity right now. “Every time I’ve suggested bringing your father into the loop you’ve shut me down.”

“Yeah, but you kept bringing it up.”

“Yes, because it kept being the right thing to do, and maybe I could have convinced you. But I would never go against your wishes. You know that. Or you should.”

“It’s just, I don’t get what else you’d have to tell my dad that you couldn’t tell me too,” his son said, in an all too familiar whine.

“Your father had just caught me climbing out of his son’s bedroom window after dark. What do you think we were talking about? World Series batting averages?”

“Oh-kay. So, what exactly _did_ you talk about then? How _did_ you excuse using the window and not the front door? And why did you need to talk _in private_. What couldn’t you tell Dad with me there?”

John held his breath. Would Derek tell him the real reason? Or take the opportunity to lie?

“What do you think, idiot? I was sneaking out of your bedroom. I had no reason to be there – no real reason to even _know_ you, much less visit you, beyond maybe belated retribution for you getting me arrested that time. So…”

Although water was still merrily splashing into the sink in the bathroom behind John, the cacophony from the cistern came to a clanking close, that just served to underscore the unnerving silence from below, chanteuse notwithstanding.

Then his son was saying, “So?  C’mon, Derek. What did you tell him?” in a tone that served as a warning that his kid’s patience, such as it ever was, was failing.

“So … I went with honesty.”

His son made a dismissive noise. “You told my dad we were consulting our supernatural database and the Argent’s bestiary to see if the livestock deaths in Beacon Levels are down to chupacabra predation or are troll-related? Really?”

“I told you, continental US chupacabras are extinct. They died out hundreds of years ago.”

“Well, wolves haven’t been seen in California in over 60 years, yet here you are.”

“I’m a _were_ wolf, you moron. And regular wolves aren’t actually extinct.”

“And werewolves aren’t actually fictional. Just saying: stranger things than chupacabras have happened, and if it’s not them, it’s trolls and that’s even weirder than a cryptid so... But, anyhoo … what did you tell my dad? Exactly?”

“You won’t let this drop, will you?”

“It’s like you can see into my soul. C’mon, spill.”

There was that noise again, the growling sound from earlier, but before John could even think to mount a rescue bid, Derek was saying, “Fine.  I told him I … I was helping you with a project.”  

Oh. 

In John’s book, that made the B-movie monster a little bit of a coward. Who would have guessed?

“Yeah, I’m not buying that, Mister. I mean, yes, we were working on a _project,_ if that’s what we’re calling research into potential troll activity now, sure. But you’re not on the home straight yet. There’s still the _in private_ hurdle you have to clear, dude.”

John flexed his fingers trying to get the feeling back in his hand. His son was goading a werewolf who…

“I’ll tell you. Then I’ll leave. If you … if you want me to leave Beacon Hills after that, your father can tell me … and I’ll go.”

“Okay, now I have literally no idea what you’re talking about. Why would you leave town? You need to explain and, like, right now.”

John’s fingers stilled.

“Stiles, I … I, uh… Fine. I did say we were working on a project together… but also that … I was here … for your company. That I wanted to spend time with you, to be here with you. Alright? That’s what I told your father.”

“You … Huh? And Dad didn’t shoot you?”

“He... he was surprisingly gracious about it. But he didn’t know then. About what I am.”

“Oh fuck. But he … wait. Hold up there, Peter Perfect in the Turbo Terrific. I don’t think I followed you ‘round that particular hairpin. _What_ did you tell Dad? You were here because you needed information on the cattle mutilations, right? Because I can research the ass out of anything and everything, yeah?”

“Yes, we were looking into the cattle deaths, but… But my main reason for being here, for not just texting… is you.”

“Huh?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“I want you to explain, is what I want. What even…?  Me?” Stiles was clearly confused (John could empathise) but his tone was sharp too. “I don’t get it? First off, you never text. It’s like a genetic thing with you or something, not being able to text when there’s a window you can climb through instead. And you come over because some supernatural shit is going down. So, why am I the main reason?”

“You’re the clever one, Stiles. You can work this out. Yes, there’s always some shit in Beacon Hills. Trolls. Kanimas. Something to research. Track down. Resolve. But I _can_ text. Or I could phone. But I come here … to you, because … I … I like your company.”

“My company?”  

“You argue with me. You provoke me, you disrespect me. You shouldn’t. But you do. I’m the Alpha. You should defer. You should be cowed. Show due respect. Yet even without werewolf abilities you stand up to me.”

“Oh, uh…  Sorry?”

“No. You don’t get it. I like that you’re a sarcastic little shit that defies me at every turn. You challenge me and push me and don’t take my bullshit… I like that.”

“You do? Really?”  His son suddenly sounded a lot younger.

“Yeah. Seems I do. You speak your mind and stand up for what you believe is right. And you’ll have the facts to back it up – which you’ll throw in my face without a thought. And you won’t ever back down or let it go. You just keep on and on until you wear me down.”

Oh yeah, Derek Hale had got the measure of his son all right.

“But you do that because you care, Stiles. I see that. I see you try to help, even when the odds are against you. You don’t hesitate. You do what you have to do to protect the people you care for. You protect people. You protect me.”

“I do?”

“You have. More times than I can count. So I think maybe you might … care for me, too. A little.”

While the background singer now lamented breaking up with her ex, John reviewed all the indications he had seen that evening that his son did indeed care for the growly grump of a guy with more issues than a box-set of Jerry Springer, and he was definitely not considering how Stiles might have ‘protected’ the guy. Dear Lord, what had been going on right under his nose?

“Stiles … I … My wolf sees the wolf in you. Those same qualities… That you stand up to me. That you are brave and loyal, and fiercely supportive and protective of your friends; the people you consider family. Pack. 

“There’s more. I need you to know this. Even if … even if you want me to leave when you know.”

“What the hell, Derek?” There was no heat in Stiles’ voice, just confusion; a stark contrast to Derek’s tone of earnest certainty. 

“My wolf recognises something in you that is … compatible … with me. I can’t explain it; I only feel it. From an admiration of your courage and your intellect, to an appreciation of your … uh, aesthetic attributes. I… I’m attracted. To you. You … you make me feel … balanced. Calmer. I find that … I’m … I’m not … unhappy when I’m in your company. My wolf likes … _I_ like coming here. I like being around you. Being with you.”

Oh. So he hadn’t mistaken Derek earlier. (Why the heck had his brain just flashed up an image of Colin Firth in period costume?) Derek was certainly putting himself on the line here, and John found himself oddly invested in a positive response from his son. 

Nope. He was stopping that line of thinking right there. He would fully support Stiles in his rejection of the _werewolf’s_ advances.

“I like you, Stiles.”

“Oh. … _Ohh_. Do you mean, um, you, _like_ like me?” His son’s voice now held wonder, but not fear or revulsion. 

“Do I have to answer that?”

“Oh wow, I think you just did, dude. Really? You _like_ like me?”

“What, are you, five? Fine, yes. I _like_ like you. Clear enough for you?”

“Oh holy hell. Really?”

“No. The bright red flush on my face is because it’s warm in here.”

“And your ears, dude. Don’t forget the tips of your ears. You could guide aircraft into LAX with those.”

“What did I ever do to deserve this? I should have just let Peter bite you.”

 _What?_ John’s hand spasmed with the need to un-holster his gun. Peter Hale had threatened his son? When? How dare he. Why was he only finding out about this now?

“Pfft. Like he ever could. The only werewolf I’d let bite me – in a non-life-threatening manner BT-dubs – is you.”

Oh.

“I … what?”

“That all you got, Sourwolf? I’m letting you know, as subtly as I know how, because I know ‘pushy’ is a big turnoff for you – or _not_ , apparently – that I’m up for this. Okay, poor word choice there, but the, uh, sentiment is completely appropriate. Completely. So, yeah uh… I just don’t get why you would be, uh, interested. In me. I’m not, uh, misreading this, am I?”

“No. Not misreading. I thought we’d established that. I like you, Stiles. Both the human and the wolf sides of my nature like you. _Like_ like you, if I have to spell it out for you. Again.

“But I’m older and, well … I have … baggage. You’ll find someone else, someone better for you, someone of your own age, who doesn’t have … history, and I won’t interfere with that. I’ll leave town, stay out of your life. But if you ever need me … I’ll leave word with Deaton – he’ll know how to find me.” 

John could hug the noble werewolf right now. Hug him and help him to pack. Wait. Deaton?

What had the town’s veterinarian got to do with this? John had never much liked the man – anybody that non-committal and evasive was likely up to no good. The guy couldn’t even give a straight answer that time over the paw-prints he found—oh. 

Crap.

“Take care of yourself, Stiles.”

John heard the couch creak and he imagined Derek standing up to leave. Again. He might not need to intervene, weapon drawn, after all. Perhaps now all these werewolf shenanigans could go back to the pages of unlikely scripts for young adult fantasy shows on MTV.

“Wait. We just got together and now you’re breaking up with me? We haven’t even had our first row and the obligatory make-up sex.”

John heard a sharp intake of breath and wasn’t sure if he or Derek were the guilty party. Maybe both.

“Honestly, Derek, your timing leaves a lot to be desired. What’d I do? Even for me, that’s pretty quick to piss off someone so badly they have to skip town to get away from me.”

“It’s not you, Stiles. It’s—”

“Do _not_ finish that sentence if you want to leave this house with your junk intact. I can’t believe this. You tell me you like me – _more_ than like me. Then you say you can’t stand to be in the same _town_ as me. What the holy hell, Derek?”

“How I feel… Stiles, this isn’t going to go away. Not for me. I spoke to Deaton—”

“Deaton? You told _Deaton_? You spoke to someone _else_ about this? Before speaking to me? What the fuck, dude? Not cool.”

“I only spoke in general terms. You weren’t mentioned by name. I don’t trust the man, but he’s my only source of werewolf information now – apart from Peter and, well ...”

“Yeah, I get it: Ton-Ton Peter isn’t exactly ... reliable. Or sane.” 

“I just wasn’t old enough, when … when my parents died, to have been told – or to remember, perhaps – all the things a werewolf ought to know. Particularly about … liking people.”

“Liking people,” Stiles repeated, his voice sounding hollow to John. He wanted to rush down and sweep his son up in his arms, then lock him away from all of this. But then Stiles was talking again, and maybe his son was actually handling this better than he was.

“What do you mean by that, Derek? Because now I’m beginning to think this is way more than you _liking_ liking me. This isn’t just a casual crush, a fleeting fad, a passing moment of madness to you, is it? This isn’t something that will go away once you’ve added another notch to your bedpost or, you know, come to your senses when the fairy dust or enchanted pollen wears off?”

“No. What? Enchanted pollen?”

“I read a lot of fanfiction. Sue me. Stopping avoiding. I’m asking if this is just a temporary aberration for you.”

“It’s not. I’m sorry. Deaton was clear – for once. My instincts, for want of a better word, have selected you. They’ve recognised you as …”

“Selected me? For what? Recognised me as what? Tell me, Derek, or so help me—”

“My mate. My life partner.”

Oh. John’s guts had just tipped into an abyss and were impersonating an elevator in free-fall. Somehow, learning that werewolves were real wasn’t a patch on the shock he’d just had hearing Derek’s resigned voice implying he had romantically, and supernaturally he supposed, latched on to his son. For _life_. What even…?

“Is that like a ‘til death do we part’ significant other?” Stiles’ voice was quiet, but it wasn’t hesitant or wavering.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?”

“No, you’re right. I won’t be a problem for you, I promise. I’ll go away and—”

“Whoa there, Lassie. Why do you keep leaving? I don’t get it?”

“I can’t stay here. I’ll want to be with you if I stay.”

“ _Be_ with. As in ‘be with’. Like—”

“Haven’t we already covered this? I like you. I want to spend the rest of my life at your side. Yes, Stiles, like being _werewolf married_. Okay? But I can’t do that … obviously. So my only option is to stay away. But if you ever needed my help I would be back—”

“No, wait. What the fuck, man? You wanna spend the rest of your life – and may I say, _'wow’_ to that, by the way – with me. As in, uh, _me_. Wow, again. But to do that you need to … what? Leave me? How does that make sense?”

A thud and a creak told John that Derek had probably retaken his seat. Or passed out from sheer exasperation, because, goddammit, John was only staying upright by dint of years of law enforcement discipline and the support of the banisters. 

One thing was certain; Derek was still in his lounge with his son. John felt strangely conflicted about that. He wanted Derek to have stalked out of the house with a curt, ‘hasta la vista, baby’ and to have disappeared into the darkness to join the other creatures of the night. 

Yet part of him wanted to commiserate with the guy for finding himself in this situation. One that seemed like it might be predestined or something of the sort.  

It must be some kind of werewolf affliction; having a life partner foisted on you. That sat ill with John; this didn’t feel like an _informed consent_ situation. It was as though Derek’s autonomy had been violated and he was being compelled by some supernatural imperative that, unlike with his son’s unrequited love for the Martin girl, sounded doubtful that he would grow out of. Damn. The guy had already had more than his fair share of being jerked around by fate.

Mechanically smoothing over the handrail the towel he had been holding, John wondered when he had come to … care about Derek Hale like that? 

“I know you understand this,” Derek was saying, his voice low but insistent “you aren’t stupid. As much as I might want to… as much as I’m attracted to you, I can’t do this. And you know why I can’t get involved with you.”

“If it’s because you think I’m straight – you know, because of Lydia and my ten-year plan – you should know—”

“Really, Stiles? I’ve known you were bi-sexual, probably pan, since we first met. That’s not the issue here.”

Bi-sexual? Oh right, that made sense. Yes, John could see that now. Claudia would’ve called him out on his tardiness in picking up on that (and on his binary approach to sexual orientation, no doubt).

“Oh. Okay. I did not know that. That _you_ knew that I was bi, I mean, because, obviously _I_ knew, although I may have been a bit confused at first—  Yeah, so uh, enlighten me, Obi-Wan, please. I’m clearly not as smart as you think I am. Why are you _walking_ _out_ on me before even _making_ _out_ with me?” 

His son’s sarcastic delivery said he wasn’t intimidated by the situation, or by a real-life werewolf at all. John felt the corners of his mouth twist up with paternal pride despite himself. 

“Don’t be obtuse,” Derek’s tone was brusque, “it doesn’t suit you. You know my background. I’m a lot older than you, I’m a werewolf, I have a ‘romantic’ history that has left ‘deep scars on my psyche’ – according to Peter. You know this. I’m not about to shackle you with that. 

“Stiles, you have your whole life ahead of you. You should be free to date who you want; to go off to college where you want; and to lead the life you choose, unencumbered by me, my species, or my emotional baggage. That’s why I intend to leave.”

Well, John had to hand it to the guy: he couldn’t have put it better himself.

“Not really got an argument with the facts, Derek. Like you said: I know all this. It’s just that those facts don’t support your hypothesis. Because I intend to go off to a college of _my_ choice, and to lead the life _I_ want. And I intend to date who I want to, too. That means dating you, FYI. Which I can’t do if you run off.”

“Stiles, I—”

“No, you listen to _me,_ okay. In a few weeks, I’ll be legally able to do what I want. And what I want is to … okay, this is what I want: I want to date you. I want for us to _mutually_ agree what’s best for _us_ and _our_ relationship. And, yeah, relationship. 

“I’ll go off to college, and while where I go will be decided in discussion with my dad – and you, of course – it will be _my_ decision. I’ll have the final say. Or, I guess, the college will, but… Anyway, college applications, offers and scholarships notwithstanding, _I’ll_ be the one who decides where I go. And you know that I will.

“I get that this probably scares you, Derek. Because of everything that’s happened. I know how I fought against letting Scott’s mom be nice to me after … after my mom…” 

John blinked back the sting behind his eyes. He’d not heard that from Stiles before; doubted anyone had. 

“…But you have to move on or the bad stuff wins. It’s a hard lesson to learn, Derek. But you gotta let people in again. You gotta let me in.

“See, actually, I think this is just a matter of timing, dude. Not good or bad timing. Just, well, timing. Because if we had met my final year at college, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d have asked you out on a date and we’d’ve had mad monkey sex between writing sonnets to each other. 

“Then, when my doctoral thesis was accepted by an august, but populist, publishing house; and the New York Times, armed with an advance copy of my soon-to-be-bestseller, was asking for an interview; you would have proposed and we’d’ve lived happily ever after. Yeah, the marriage thing doesn’t scare me. Deal with it.

“Timing is all, Derek. If we’d been friends in kindergarten – like me and Scott – this conversation wouldn’t even be necessary, because I’d have been the best friend who didn’t trust the new girl putting the moves on my drop-dead-handsome, hugely adorable, werewolf friend that I realised I wasn’t just lusting over but was completely in love with. I’d thwart Kate’s plan, save the day, and you’d confess your undying love for the hero of the hour – that’d be me, BT-dubs. 

“It’s just timing, that’s all. And I’d kinda like to spend all my timing from now on with you.”

“Stiles…”

“Oh, and I guess, I ought to be very wary of someone making some lifetime pledge here. I’m not blind to my age and the statistics on young love and all the obstacles we’d face. Even allowing for the supernatural element here, dude, I should be opposed to talk of lifelong commitment at my age.

“Thing is: I’m not. I’m … stoked. Thrilled, if you wanna know. But only because it’s you who’s saying it. I’m not interested in anyone else. Haven’t been since … I dunno, that night in the pool maybe.”

His son huffed a cut-off laugh that had John wondering – again – just how much of his son’s life he had missed.

“See, Derek, when I realised, uh, how I felt … about you… Well I thought it was just, uh … lust? I mean, the bad-boy persona is always seductive, you know; the leather, the muscles, the scruff, even the scowls and the manhandling.”

What? What sort of manhandling? Dear god.

“And I think back then, after the pool … when you’d tried to push me out of harm’s way and got paralysed and nearly drowned for your trouble…”

Jesus!

“I mean, back then I thought it was just good old fashioned lust, ‘cause, well, you’re not exactly unpleasant to look at, and wet clothes kinda cling, know what I’m saying. Plus, that self-sacrificing hero shit is always a huge turn on, even if you bitch about it while you’re doing it.

“Of course, I wasn’t about to say anything. Duh. I can do without that level of humiliation thanks very much. So I upped my Lydia game. It provided a suitable smokescreen and gave me a … distraction.

“And with Lydia still preferring Jackass to me? After everything? Well, I thought that how I felt about you was, I dunno, just me transposing my Lydia infatuation maybe? Just misplaced desire. I’d get over it. 

“But I didn’t. And maybe I started to think I was never getting over this …thing … for you. Only I had to. Because no way would you feel the same about me, not in a million years or in a billion different parallel dimensions. Like ever.

“Except, apparently you do. Which … wow. _Awesome_. So no point me ever buying a lottery ticket. Used all my luck up on you.”

“Stiles, no, you can’t—” Derek sounded broken, but John didn’t have time to dissect how he felt about that; his son wasn’t letting up.

“See, I think this ‘lifetime’ deal thing is not just one-sided. It kinda feels right to me – which is totes weird, given the givens. I get that. But maybe it’s because of my spark or something. I’m kinda thinking it’s both me _and_ my spark, y’know? But, pfft—”

His ‘spark’? What sort of euphemism was that?

“—I really don’t have a clue, dude. All I can tell you, is that I want this, Derek. With you.”

“No you don’t. You think you do. That’s all.”

“Screw you, Derek, you patronising dick. I don’t deserve that. I call bullshit. You can hear if I’m lying, and not one word of what I just said was a lie and you know it. 

“Plus, _I’m_ the hard sell here, asshole. I’m the one who sees the pitfalls and tries to get you or Scott to not go rushing headlong into all manner of assorted crap without making a plan and working out the kinks before you go off half-cocked and get yourselves killed.”

That had to be a metaphor, didn’t it? Dear Lord.

“You know what, Derek? Fuck this. I’m so done with talking about this. Here’s what I’m doing. I won’t stop you if you really want to leave Beacon Hills … to leave me. I think the timing sucks, IMHO, but if that’s what you need to do to be able to live with yourself then … go. Take care of yourself and don’t go looking for trouble. Just promise you’ll let Scott know if trouble comes looking for you. You’re kinda like a magnet for it, dude. Don’t argue; you know it. And I won’t be there to have your back. So call Scotty.

“Okay, so... If you have to go, then fine. Goodbye, Sourwolf. Have a good life. I wish you well.

“ _But_. I’d prefer it if you stuck around and gave _us_ a chance, at least. You should know that if you leave, that will likely influence where I go to college, or if I go at all. Because how could I be on one side of the continent if I know you’re sulking on the other? 

“If you stay, you’ll be part of the decision as to where I study, but you won’t be the sole deciding factor, because together we can work stuff out to fit in with what’s best for _both_ of us. Don’t take that option away from me, Derek. Don’t take that option away from yourself. 

“But even if you don’t want that … with me, please stay. This is your home and you have some good friends here. Beacon Hills is your home, dude. Your pack’s home. It’s where you belong.”

John couldn’t argue the point; the Hales were founding fathers of Beacon Hills. But he would rather hear his son echoing the singer downstairs, who was exhorting her ex to treat his new lover better, as he showed Derek the door. Stiles shouldn’t be tying himself down when he was still so young. After all, he wasn’t yet 18, not even at college.

College. Oh. Hadn’t he and Claudia fallen for each other during Freshers Week at college? Claudie had been not even six months older than Stiles is now; John not much more. But John had known his own mind then. He’d even battled his own father over Claudie.

If John was being honest here, he had been a bit of a player at high school; handsome, athletic, always ready to sweet-talk his way into a girl’s heart (and more). He’d been looking forward to breaking more hearts at college. 

Then he’d met Claudie and he’d never looked at another girl; had known he never would. They’d been inseparable from that moment until Claudia’s death had ripped their family apart.

But this with Stiles? This was different. His kid was on the rebound from the Martin girl, or he was flattered at the attention from Hale and had mistaken that for some kind of affection for the guy. Because, objectively the guy was good-looking (Tara had practically swooned when he’d been bought into the station and booked for murder) and he clearly spent time at the gym. But he was a grown-assed man who could have his pick of attractive, confident, successful adults. 

Stiles wasn’t thinking this through. Never mind any physical disparity, there were so many red flags. There were financial considerations – did Hale even have a job? Would he expect Stiles to keep him; was that what this was about? What of Stiles’ education, his chance to spread his wings and get away from Beacon Hills, if only for a while? 

What about the gay prejudice they would inevitably encounter, and what if one of them wanted to father children? How would that work? And what of Stiles’ youth, the glaring age difference, and what of … what of the _species_ issue? 

But what of love, he could hear Claudie ask. 

Love? Really? How could this be love? John dragged a hand over his face.

The irritated tone of Stiles’ voice from below pulled John from his thoughts:

“Okay, okay, fine, Sourwolf. You stay. But _I’ll_ leave. I can pick a college far enough away that it won’t be uncomfortable for you here. You call the shots here, big guy. Just on this one thing, but … yeah, I’ll leave. If that’s what you need to stay in Beacon Hills, you got it.”

What the hell was his son thinking?

“Stiles, you … you can’t mean that.”

“Can’t I? I want to be with you, Derek. In any and every way that I can. But if that’s not gonna happen, then my fall-back plan is whatever works best for you. I’ll leave town so you can stay.”

“Why? Why would you…? I don’t understand.”

“Jeez, Derek, this isn’t advanced computer coding here. I … Okay, here goes: I’m pretty sure I love you. There. I said it. And it should be weird – although ‘weird’ has been getting a mundane makeover these days – but, those words I said? They feel right. So, yep, Derek, I love you. 

“And yeah, I want to be with you. But I want whatever makes you happy more. And that’s for you to stay in Beacon Hills, your home, with your pack. If you can only do that if I’m not here, then I’ll go. It’s not a difficult choice for me, Derek. But I’d prefer to stay. With you.”

“I … you … I… No, I…”

“Holy hell, Derek. You’ve never been good with words, but you usually come across as ‘surly, taciturn’, not ‘inept, tongue-tied’. Don’t make me do all the work here. I have no clue what I’m doing, except, yeah, I love you, and really, really want to be your ‘life partner’ or whatever. Just give us a chance, huh? Shit, Derek, don’t make me beg, ‘cause I will, and it won’t be pretty, and—mmph.”

Crap. They weren’t doing what he was thinking they were, were they? Oh dammit, Derek Hale was kissing his son. 

John’s hand went to his holster and stilled, resting atop the safety flap. Who should he be charging in to rescue here? As far as John could tell, Derek was probably more in need of his help than Stiles. 

Grown man, Derek Hale, with his difficulty in stringing words together beyond his mantra of ‘I’ll leave’, seemed the least mature of the two. You couldn’t run away from your troubles, and anyone who thought they could outrun _Stiles_ would be quickly disabused. Derek ought to know better. But he seemed … lost … in all of this.

Stiles on the other hand …?

His son’s little impassioned outburst was typical of his tsunami approach to discussions. He’d hit you with an emotional deluge, then back off a little, just enough to let you think you’d survived. But the moment you let your guard down, he’d rush back in with the full weight of his crushing argument that had you going with the flow just for an easy life. Not that life with Stiles was ever _easy_. 

A conversation with Stiles was an exercise in not giving ground under the torrent of his words. Few could weather that kind of bombardment. John knew what it was like to try and keep your feet, and your sanity sometimes, when his son had a bee in his bonnet.

Stiles was tenacious; which could come across as irritating and pushy, true. But if you once had his affection, he would stick with you through hell and high-water. And tsunamis.

And he always knew his own mind. He’d hunt down the facts, for sure, and could be relentless about it. Then he’d compile lists and make plans with timelines and flowcharts, all of which might suggest a sterile, clinical approach to decision-making. But Stiles was nothing if not Claudia’s son, and, like his mother, he threw a large pinch of his natural perceptiveness into every conclusion he reached. And if he judged something to be right, he’d stick with it through thick and thin, even if it made him unpopular (at school, or with his father).

John supposed that his son’s recognition and ready acknowledgement of his sexual orientation was a case in point. His approach to that had been level-headed and without drama (Claudie would have been so proud), to the extent that John had all but missed the clues. 

Even, he supposed, Stiles’ belief in, and easy acceptance of, the existence of werewolves, spoke to his strength of conviction and his maturity in the face of problematic and life-altering situations. He’d evidently helped Scott with his metamorphosis with a fierce level-headedness and a brave defiance that had John blinking back tears of pride and admiration (and anxiety, it had to be said).

His kid had had to grow up too soon. Though he was still a few weeks short of his majority, he’d had to take on adult responsibilities since before he was in middle school. And he’d dealt with them fine. Better than John had on occasion, if he was honest with himself.

And now? Now his son was making out with a mythical creature in his own goddamn lounge. He ought to do something. 

And he will do something. He’ll put his faith in Stiles and walk away. He’ll rely on his son to have done the research and to trust his own instincts. It’s what Claudia would have counselled him to do. John could imagine her softly tsking at him, while looking on fondly at Stiles and his ... boyfriend.

Dammit Claudie.

Stiles could be a stubborn SOB at the best of times, and John could hear Claudia’s gentle, calming voice, telling him that if he interferes now he’ll only make matters worse. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it happen a thousand times as a cop; good kids, well-meaning parents who can’t bring themselves to have faith in the values they instilled in those kids, and then the law gets involved, from graffiti to drugs. But until that moment, John had never truly appreciated the level of bravery necessary to give your kids the space to let them make their own mistakes. Or maybe to discover their true path in life.

Yep, he was doing the right thing. Something settled inside him as if Claudia had placed her hand on his arm and smiled at him.

Grabbing up the towel, John about-faced, putting one weary foot in front of the other to return to the bathroom, where he realised water was still chugging noisily down the drain. 

Having shut off the faucet and returned the towel to its hook, John mooched back along the hallway to his room. 

By the time he had eased himself down to sit on the edge of his bed, he had made another decision. 

At least the timing wouldn’t cause too many problems; this weekend promised warm weather, dry roads, no full moon (and that had taken on a new significance tonight), and no sporting events. And it wasn’t like he made a habit of it. Far from it; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this. Probably back when Claudia was ill.

Ah Claudie, honey. 

John pulled his phone from his pocket, flicked open a blank text and selected ‘Hannah Escott’ in the address bar. After a few moments of one-fingered typing, and several amendments to the auto-correct prompts, he surveyed his composition. 

_'Need to take day off tomorrow (Sat). Pls let Aaron know he’ll be OiC – too late to phone him now – I’ll spk 2 him in AM. I’m rota’d off on Sunday, so see you Monday. Nothing wrong. Just some family stuff (Stiles!) They grow up so fast. JS'_

His finger hovered, then just before he pressed ‘send’ he tapped out a postscript:

_‘Think I just met my future son-in-law!’_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gawd, the trouble I had posting this! I think I’ve worn out my backspace key. When I paste via Firefox, what looks ok in MSWord, has way too much white space between paras in HMTL (hence the manic backspacing) or no space at all between paras (a ‘wall of text’) in Rich Text. I go looking for a help forum here and … there isn’t one (Huh?) – just some kinda techie FAQs that I might have to get an MSc to get to grips with.  
> Update: Woo, think I've successfully managed to bring Word and AO3 together without risking my sanity, thanks to the lovely people here. I'll test it with a Drabble later. Thanks for everyone's help. <3 <3


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